















. 



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NEAR THE THRONE 

, By 

W. J. THOROLD 

A Romantic Novel 


Illustrated with Photographs taken from life 
by G. G. Rockwood of James K. Hackett, 
Theodore Babcock, Frank Mordaunt, 
T. B. Bridgeland, Corona Riccardo, 
Mary Mannering ::::::::: 



New York 

MEYER BROS. & COMPANY 
Publishers 


TWO COPIES RECEIVED, 

Library of Conges**, 

Office of the 

.' DEG 9-1 gut) 

Register of Copyright*, 




A. 

A 


43548 

Copyright, 1899, 

By MEYER BROS. & CO. 


Photographs Copyright, 1899, 

By G. G. ROCKWOOD, N. Y. 

Entered at Stationers’ Hall, London, England. 

All Rights Reserved. 


SECOND COPY, 


lot'i-o A" 

<aefc.'vv'; < 3 < 5 , 


Dedication 


THE REAL 


NAZIRA 


SYNOPSIS OF THE NOVEL 


Scene: Cairo. Time: 1799. 

Book ©ne 

IN THE GARDEN OF HASSAN 

Four months elapse 

¥ 

Book Ttwo 

IN THE SURGERY OF BALZAR 

Three weeks elapse 

¥ 

Booft XTbree 

IN FRONT OF THE PALACE OF SALADIN 

Two days elapse 

¥ 

Book jfoui* 

IN THE GOUNTING ROOM OF HASSAN 

One hour elapses. 

¥ 

Book jftve 

IN THE CITADEL 


CONTENTS 


BOOK ONE 
To Win a Woman 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. — Adventurers from the North . . . 13 

II. — Sowing a Whirlwind . . . .21 

III. — Man’s One Shrine . . . 31 

IV. — The Lady and the Garter . . . .40 

■ V. — Three Magic Words . . . . 50 

VI. — A New Use for a Star . . . *56 


FIRST INTERLOGUE 


BOOK TWO 
To Break a Heart 


I. — A Sparkling Inspiration . . . . .71 

II. — The Life of a Kiss ...... 85 

III. — Paid in His Own Wine . . . . .96 

IV. — Only a Parrot . . . . . . .104 

V. — The Trail of the Slanderer . . . .110 

VI. — The Summer and a Rose . . . . .121 


SECOND INTERLOGUE 

9 


Contents 


BOOK THREE 
To Gain an Empire 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. — The Bastille of Egypt . . . . . 139 

II. — The Beggar and the Keys .... 144 

III. — A Winged Messenger . . . . 153 

IV. — The Desire of the Heart. . . . .161 

V. — The Prisoner and the Choice . . . .170 

VI. — A Veiled Message . . . . . . 1 77 

VII. — The Temptation of the Purple . . . .182 


THIRD INTERLOGUE 


BOOK FOUR 
To Save a Country 

I. — The Right to Happiness . . . . . 197 

II. — A Monk and His Mission ..... 205 

III. — Into the Trap ....... 215 

IV. — From the Flower to the Heart . . . .220 

V. — A Little Trooper ...... 227 

VI. — The Seal of Fire ...... 237 


FOURTH INTERLOGUE 


BOOK FIVE 
To Stop a Despot 

I. — The Judge and His Desires . . . .251 

II. — The Luck of the Merriest . .... 256 

III. — A Court with No Appeal ..... 259 

IV. — Two Practical Dreamers ..... 264 

V. — Sabre Against Scimitar ..... 273 

VI. — The Question of a King ..... 280 

10 


PERSONS IN THE PICTURES 


JAMES K. HACKETT 

As Captain Marcel Balzar 

¥ 

THEODORE BABCOCK 
As Murad 

¥ 

FRANK MORDAUNT 

As Hassan 

¥ 

T. B. BRIDGELANI) 

As Osman 

¥ 

CORONA RICCARDO 
As Worda 

¥ 

MARY MANNERING 

As Nazira 













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4 




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• ■ 















Booft ©ne 


TO WIN A WOMAN 



















V 





t 













































































NEAR THE THRONE 


CHAPTER I 

ADVENTURERS FROM THE NORTH 

A garden in Cairo, on the outskirts of the city 
where there are fewer domes and minarets. The 
ground plan of the fascinating city which is the 
essence of all Egypt has not changed very greatly 
since that eventful winter just one hundred years 
ago. 

Through the garden a stream, looking like an 
elixir of soft flame and fringed richly with papyrus, 
winding southerly to the Nile. 

Over this stream a bridge leading to a gate in 
the stone wall. At the opposite end of the bridge 
three rustic steps ; and the length of a couple of 
scimitars away a mound covered with a rug at one 
corner of which a pipe was smouldering. Opposite 
the mound a pedestal upon which a crimson cush- 
ion rested in place of a statue. 

Above the yellow blossoms of acacias with their 
leafless stalks tilted toward the sky stately and 

13 


Near the Throne 


luxuriant palms waving dreamily in the morning 
breeze, making the place a foliaged and flowery 
paradise. 

Along the western bank of the old river of 
mysteries a caravan of camels casting their last 
regretful glances at the bluish-green waters and 
swaying as they trudged with their burdens of 
flashily dressed Arabians prepared alike for the 
smile of the sun or the sweep of the burning 
simoom. 

Farther on, where the waters murmur as they 
pass, the monuments of ambitious and defiant 
kings in a sarcophagus of granite seeking an im- 
mortality their lives had failed to win : the lonely 
and stupendous pyramids from whose lofty sum- 
mits twenty centuries look down upon the myriad 
secrets of battle and romance that lie hidden 
beneath the desert sands — secrets of what men 
have done to gain an empire or a woman. 

Past the gate in the wall three water carriers 
with their leathern bottles were walking, mutter- 
ing and quarrelling and pushing aside a stooping 
turbanned beggar who limped along more slowly 
and upon entering the garden hobbled off in the 
direction of the house of Hassan. A Moslem 
priest, paying no attention to any of them, hast- 
ened by on his way to the Mosque of Omar. Then 
from the opposite direction a group of dancing 
girls came tripping along chattering and laughing 

14 


Near the Throne 

merrily — without a doubt they had been hired 
again to dance at the feast of a rich pasha. They 
went often now to the Palace of Saladin to amuse 
its lavish Saracenic master and an inscrutable little 
Corsican, when these two military dissemblers had 
tired of conferences on further invasions and a 
new vast empire of the Orient — to which each 
admitted the key to be Egypt, now lost for good 
to the Sultan of Constantinople. For ages that 
strategic country of the Pharaohs, the desire of 
the diplomats and monarchs of Europe, has been 
the land of pleasure and ambition. Its sceptre 
has been battled for because men believed the rod 
of gold pointed the way to the heart of a siren. 
General Bonaparte wanted to share it with Jose- 
phine, Murad Pasha to lay it at the feet of Nazira 
— where Captain Balzar was already kneeling and 
offering, not a crown, but only himself for her hand. 

When two soldiers stand near a throne, and a 
third, who is a firm friend of one and a secret 
enemy of the other and all on account of a woman 
whom neither has yet won, stands watching close 
by with his hand always on the hilt of his sword 
—it means danger. And the meaning of danger 
that is written in no dictionary is a chance for 
glory and love. 

After the almehs sauntered a very fat French- 
man rejoicing in a round ruddy face and extremely 
red hair; he opened the gate and entered the 
T S 


Near the Throne 


garden. This example of geniality had just crossed 
the bridge when a younger gentleman of the same 
Gallic race, dressed in creamy lace and glossy 
satin as faultlessly as a courtier bidden to a func- 
tion at the Tuileries, met him. 

“Carmier! ” exclaimed the elder of the two. 

“Monsieur Taschereau ! ” answered the youth, 
freshly shaven and curled and pomatumed. 

“ Sapristi ! The journalist that used to be, the 
pedlar that is — Plutarque Taschereau ! ” the pub- 
licist laughingly responded, as the troublesome 
pack was allowed to slip from his shoulders to the 
ground and two outspread palms invited a glance 
at their owner’s dusty roadworn clothes and tri- 
colour sash that indicated his sympathy with the 
revolutionists of France. 

“ P p- precisely,” acquiesced the blond Gascon, 
eyeing his compatriot through the monocle that 
caused him much trouble- — a habit he had con- 
tracted with several other fashions during a brief 
sojourn in England. 

The lame beggar emerged from among the trees. 
For a moment he arrested the attention of the two 
Europeans. He was such an odd looking person: 
his strangeness being accentuated by the flowing 
costume of his country, frayed and even ragged 
from long use and hard travel. Crossing the 
bridge slowly, the aged mendicant went out at the 
gate and disappeared along the road. 

16 


Near the Throne 


“Who is that? ” asked Taschereau. 

“ Orde Hafid, the beggar from India,” answered 
Cannier. 

“ Father Grotesque ! ” 

“ You’ll never be d-dull in Cairo,” Carmier stut- 
tered out in the clipped precise tones affected by 
the aristocrats of the day — to escape whose fate 
the gallant Monsieur Alphonse Carmier had un- 
necessarily fled from his native land. 

“No?” said Taschereau reflectively and glad 
to be assured of this certainty of entertainment. 

“Mademoiselle Antoinette Fleury is here.” 

“ I don’t know the lady.” 

“The lady!” Alphonse laughed. “You don’t 
know Tinette ? ” 

“ No,” sighed the ruddy Taschereau. “ That is 
a pleasure that has been denied me. ” 

“ But you w-w-will.” 

“ Without doubt. And I hope it may be soon.” 

“Mademoiselle Lucine Chaumont is here too.” 

“ I never heard of her.” 

“Then Til tell you of some one of whom you 
have heard. ” 

“ Now in Cairo ? ” 

“Very much here.” 

“ Who ? 

“The confidant of General Bonaparte — Captain 
Marcel Balzar.” 

“ Sapristi ! I must see him.” 

2 J7 


Near the Throne 


“And you must see the girl he's f-fallen in 
love with — a Copt.” 

“ Le Beau Sabreur ! ” 

“ She is called the light of the Nile, the most 
beautiful creature in Egypt ! ” 

“ Balzar, you say ? The indifferent ! Tired of 
Paris. Sapristi ! Her name?” 

“ Nazira.” 

“ I must see this girl who has worked such a 
miracle.” So saying Taschereau appropriated the 
lighted hookah at the corner of the rug covering 
the mound and forthwith began to smoke ; But, 
either from habit or from the dread of again 
accustoming himself to luxuries, the revolutionist 
sat on his pack. It was pleasant, like sitting on 
an old friend. 

The Gascon watched him silently and enviously. 

“ Carmier.” 

“ Yes?” 

“ Have one with me,” suggested the former 
scribbler, offering the brown morocco covered flask 
he drew from his pocket. “It’s the finest old 
Burgundy.” 

“ Th-thanks," answered the faultless Alphonse, 
his nostrils and eyes acknowledging the delicate 
preliminary whiff that accompanied the unscrew- 
ing of the silvered stopper. 

" They say Cairo is getting as gay as Paris since 
Napoleon conquered Egypt.” 

18 


Near the Throne 

“W why, it’s empty!” 

“What? Egypt?” 

“Nnno — the flask,” Carmier replied, looking 
up and getting a puff of smoke to console his dis- 
appointment “Who owns that pipe? ” 

“I don’t know,” admitted Taschereau with the 
easy nonchalance that travel begets. 

“L I like to?” asked his companion, adjusting 
his monocle and assuming an attitude of impor- 
tance as he stroked his little blond mustache ner- 
vously. 

“ Don’t mind,” answered the unperturbed revo- 
lutionist. 

“ The owner of this garden, the father of the 
inamorata of Marcel Balzar, a man who has but 
t t two objects in life: first to get rich.” 

“Second?” inquired Taschereau, still unim- 
pressed and enjoying the scented tobacco. 

“To g get richer. I’m his t.-t trusted ac- 
countant, The wealthiest merchant on the 
Nile — Hassan.” 

“ What does he deal in ? ” 

“ Ivory — and s slaves — with a side line of 
r r-rope ! ” 

“ Sapristi ! ” ejaculated he of the rubicund 
countenance, dropping the mouthpiece and kick- 
ing over the bowl of the pipe in his haste. “ Au 
revoir,” he continued, pack in place, and stum- 
bling over the bridge to the gate. “I don’t 
J 9 


Near the Throne 

think he’s a proper person for me to be acquainted 
with.” 

“ P-p-precisely,” Alphonse laughed, picking up 
the forgotten flask. 

The retreating pedlar disappeared around a turn 
in the road. 

Watching the tricolour sash vanish and going 
himself in the opposite direction the immaculate 
youth said : 

“That was a clever idea! N-now, Monsieur 
Plutarque Taschereau, I’ll see if I can get you a 
little drop of B b -burgundy that will change the 
colour of your b-b-beard ! ” Then holding up the 
flask he added: “Here’s to the bravest and best 
of all the adventurers from the North — Le Beau 
Sabreur ! May he defeat the Saracen — and win 
the woman he loves ! ” 



CHAPTER II 


SOWING A WHIRLWIND 

Monsieur Taschereau must have passed in his 
haste an Egyptian girl not far from the gate for 
in a moment a sinuous form en- 
tered slowly, looking around 
cautiously, apprehension in 
every step, fear in every move- 
ment. 

“Worda!” exclaimed Lu 
cine, coming into the garden 
from another direction at the 
same time. The voice of the 
young governess was full of the 
astonishment she felt at seeing 
her former mistress — especially 
here so near the house of Has- 
san. 

“I’ve been watching for you 
so long,” answered the mer 
chant’s unfortunate daughter. “ But tell me — the 
children, Ali and Halima, are they well? ” 

“ Both.” 

“And Nazira, is she happy? ” 

21 



Near the Throne 


“ I think so,” said Mademoiselle Chaumont. 

How glad I am!” the Egyptian girl replied, 
her eyes lighting up. 

But Lucine went on : “ Your father ” 

“No,” Worda interrupted, “do not talk of him, 
Lucine. He is so stern and severe. He ordered 
me to leave our home, never to return ; forbade me 
to speak to my little brother or sister — disowned 
me. But you will let me see them, won’t you? ” 

“In a few minutes, Worda, I’ll take them for a 
walk in the garden.” 

“ And I shall stand over there in the shadows. 
O Lucine, if only I might speak to them, have just 
one tiny kiss ! ” 

“Perhaps you may.” 

A doubtful form of expression this seemed, but 
in the glance that went with it there was a promise 
carried from the blue eyes to the black. 

Then Worda whispered softly to something 
beneath her cloak : “ Be still my little pet.” 

“What a pretty pigeon!” Lucine put in ad 
miringly, watching the bird fluttering, 

“Yes, an Antwerp,” answered Worda as she 
ran lighter of heart along the bank of the stream. 
“An officer from the French fort at Balbeis gave 
it me.” 

She disappeared just in time, for the next mo- 
ment Hassan entered from the direction of the 
house. 


22 


Near the Throne 



“ I thought I saw some one speaking with you, 
Lucine,” he said, watching her eyes that they 
might tell some tale. 

The young Provencal did not reply. 

“There is a woman,” he continued, in a manner 
colder than her native mistral, “ whose name I 
would not mention. 

She used to be my 
daughter — I fancied 
she was near. An 
swer me : were you 
speaking with her? ” 

" No.” 

“Then with 
whom ? ” 

“ Tinette,” the girl 
fibbed easily and 
whitely, looking at 
him squarely. 

He could not con 
tradict her, having 
seen nothing. Be- 
sides the fair-haired governess spoke with such 
honesty of tone. Before he had time for an- 
other question, Halima's voice sounded from the 
house : 

“ Lucine — Lucine ! ” 

“ The children. See what they want,” com- 
manded Hassan. 


23 


Near the Throne 

Mademoiselle obeyed immediately, preceding 
him. 

His impatient gesture and hesitating step be- 
trayed the disturbing suspicions of his mind. He 
resolved to wait — and watch. 

But he too was observed; and by two men of 
his own country. They had been walking slowly 
up the road and now opening the gate to the garden 
came over the bridge — Osman and Murad, the 
Pasha of Egypt and the old Bey, who was his 
closest friend. For some time Hassan had felt 
that some dread thing was hanging darkly over 
him. It was the shadow of these two Egyptians. 

Osman went on with their conversation : 

“ Your mother ” 

“ Don’t remind me of it,” interrupted the Pasha. 
“I know; she was a Frenchwoman. That’s my 
misfortune — and I hate the whole race of them 
for it.” 

“Who was she?” the old man asked, peering 
up at his master. Though in truth, he stooped 
but little considering the sixty-one years of his 
age — at least two score of them years of intrigue 
and turmoil. 

Close observers would have noted the fact that 
in certain lights the eyes of the Pasha had in them 
a shade of blue and that he did not possess quite 
the aquiline nose of the normal Arabian. 

“Who was she? ” the Bey asked again. 

24 


Near the Throne 


“A slave of my father’s,” answered Murad, 
“who disappeared when I was a few months 
old — captured. ” 

“ Have you ever seen her? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Could you recognize her ? ” 

“Yes. My father had two signet rings — ex- 
actly alike. I have one,” he said showing it to 
his companion, “ she has the other. She has also 
the scar of a lash on her left arm.” 

“ And you ? ” 

“ I ? ” Murad exclaimed tossing back his head, 
his black eyes flashing. “ I was nursed by an 
Arabian. So you see this is my own country. 
My father was an Egyptian, the milk that nour 
ished me was Egyptian — my veins are full of the 
blood of Egypt ! But this,” he sneered, con- 
temptuously hitting with his nails and the back 
of his hand a five-rayed decoration — “ the Grand 
Cross of the Legion of Honour!” 

“Of France.” 

“ From Napoleon ! ” 

“ He gave it to you with great ceremony.” 

“Conferred it upon me! Well, it serves.” 

“ Yes — its purpose.” 

“ My purpose — to pull the camel’s hair over the 
eyes of the artilleryman of Corsica.” 

Bonaparte pursued a special policy with regard 
to this powerful Pasha and his adherents. Anx- 

25 


Near the Throne 


ious to avoid their enmity and obtain their co- 
operation for the furtherance of his vast designs 
for an eastern empire he resolved to soothe their 
prejudices and gratify their vanity. Though 
leaving none of its sovereign rights unexercised, 
the French general did not yet assume a title of 
conquest. He continued to admit Murad to an 
ostensible share of authority with himself, and by 
the intervention of a divan affected to govern like 
the Grand Signior of Constantinople. Bonaparte 
further endeavoured to persuade the Moslems that 
he pertained to their religion and was an envoy of 
Allah sent to earth to confirm and complete the 
doctrines of the Koran and the mission of Ma- 
homet. But though the Mufti on entering the 
sepulchral chamber in the pyramid of Cheops an- 
nounced his belief in the conversion of Napoleon, 
yet neither he nor the other followers of the 
Prophet even desired this proselytism to the faith 
of Islam. They were too shrewd — those Saracens. 
Murad had already read in a copy of Le Moniteur 
sent him by Sir Sidney Smith that the Abbe de 
Pradt had distinguished Napoleon by the term of 
Jupiter Scapin. But circumstances obliged the 
Pasha for the present to adopt the same policy as 
the victor and feign an attachment which he would 
soon scornfully throw off. Accordingly the diplo- 
matic Egyptian lent himself to advance the aims and 
ambitions of the Man of Destiny and assisted in 
26 


Near the Throne 


deriving his name from Arabian words meaning 
the Lion of the Desert. It was, however, the 
rolling fire of musketry by which Bonaparte 
achieved his glorious Success at the Battle of the 
Pyramids that procured for him the Oriental ap- 
pellation of Sultan Kebir — King of Fire. 

“ Osman,” resumed Murad, “ I wish our customs 
would permit me to ask Hassan for his daughter 
in marriage.” 

“ We cannot alter the laws of our ancestors,” 
was the laconic reply of the Bey to this embryo 
heresy, that came unconsciously, perhaps, from 
the European taint that shamed the haughty 
Murad. 

“I know,” he replied. “ Custom is stronger 
than the Koran. A man must have a relative or 
trusted friend to do this for him.” 

The elder of the two conspirators drew back a 
step. Frowning, he asked : “ Am I not ” 

But Murad would not let him finish the sen- 
tence. “You are, Osman,” he hastened to add. 
“You are indeed my friend.” 

“ Murad, there is one thing we must do,” said 
the Bey, becoming practical in a moment. 

“ What is that ? ” 

They drew nearer together. 

“ Poison Hassan’s mind against Marcel Balzar.” 

“ Can you do it ? ” 

True to his Machiavellian principles, Murad 
27 


Near the Throne 

stood ever ready to use falsehoods as rungs of a 
ladder to his ends and others as cat’s-paws. Every 
country has its Iagos. And his star had said he 
was near the throne. 

“We will do it together,” was the politic re- 
sponse of the astrol- 
oger. 

“That’s better,” 
the Pasha assented, 
quickly perceiving 
the inexpediency of 
pressing for advan- 
tage. 

“ Begin on the 
Captain’s reputa- 
tion,” Osman sug- 
gested tentatively. 

Murad at once 
recognized the wis- 
dom and possibili- 
ties of such a 
course. “ Undermine it,” he added. 

“The very thing.” 

“ Start a whisper.” 

Methods are the same for all centuries and con- 
tinents. 

“No more ? ” asked the old man. 

“No more is necessary. Scandal has wings. 
Balzar’s gay career in Paris, his doings in this 
28 



Near the Throne 


city — and to all the stories add a little. I hope 
you may find Hassan at home — and win his con- 
sent. Speak to the old man wisely.” 

“ I am not an astrologer for nothing, ” replied 
the Bey with pregnant emphasis and stroking his 
long white beard. 

“ Remember that Hassan and his family are 
Copts — Christians of the oldest type. Therefore 
avoid any question of religion.” 

“ I shall— carefully ! ” 

“ Mention neither the warrior of Mecca nor the 
Carpenter of Nazareth. As you speak observe 
the merchant in the man and show deference to 
the father.” 

“ Trust me for that.” 

“Tell Hassan of my wealth,” he continued 
walking toward the bridge and with a sweep of his 
swarthy arm pointing along the distant river, “tell 
him of the gold I have hidden in the treasure 
pyramids on the banks of the Nile — the silver, 
the ivory, the precious stones that glisten in my 
palace.” 

“I shall.” 

Murad was now standing at the centre of the 
bridge, picturesque and fascinating — a son of the 
desert, he was a savage endowed with a great in- 
tellect. And he had the air imperial as if his 
swaddling clothes had been of purple. 

Osman felt the spell of the Pasha’s personality. 

29 


Near the Throne 


“Tell him,” Murad went on, his eyes aflash with 
his own eloquence and fixed on the Bey, “ tell him 
of its splendour: the spacious coriidors and vast 
banquet hall, with floors of marble and pillars of 
granite — the walls bedecked 
with trophies of the Pharaohs — 
all lighted by the soft glow of 
candelabra. Remind him of 
the luxuries of my palace : a 
hundred slaves that Nazira 
might command, chambers hung 
with richest silks — the colours, 
music, perfumed fountains.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Mention too my princely 
blood,” he continued, drawing 
his damascened scimitar from its 
scabbard. “Tell him of my 
past career as a ruler and a sol- 
dier — of how as General of the 
fearless Mamelukes, mounted on our swift Ara- 
bians, I so often led them to battle and to victory. 
Paint my future, for I shall yet crush this young 
Napoleon, defy the Sultan as before — win the 
crown, swing the sceptre, and on the throne of 
Egypt reign as king.” 

They went out : Murad at the gate, Osman to 
meet Hassan and steal away the good name of 
Captain Marcel Balzar. 

30 



CHAPTER III 


man’s one shrine 

Before the Bey reached the house, however, he 
met Hassan emerging from the palms. 

“ Ah, Osman ! ” said the merchant greeting 
him. 

“ Hassan,” the old intriguer returned with much 
suavity of tone and manner, “my dear friend.” 

“ You are well, I hope? ” 

“ Excellent, and just wishing to see you.” 

“Indeed?” 

“ On a most important subject that I think may 
be of great interest to yourself and family — as it 
is to my noble master.” 

“Then,” replied Hassan, forgetful of the fact 
that a fox brings forth nothing but a little fox, 
“ let us go in where we may talk it over quietly 
and at our ease.” 

“Thank you,” replied Osman very obsequi- 
ously, stepping aside that his host might go be- 
fore. 

Together they entered the house, the merchant 
and the astrologer, that the fate of a daughter 
might be settled between piastres and planets. It 
3i 


Near the Throne 


is not difficult to draw the path of another’s des- 
tiny, but to make that other walk therein has been 
known to be as easy as flying, especially when 
the object of solicitation is of the sex that keeps 
all the world greatly wondering. For sometimes 
the voice of a man may be pleasanter to a girl than 
the clink of coins, and the heart of a lover more 
magnetic than the gleam of a meteor. 

Music attracted Osman as he entered the house 
with Hassan. Pausing and looking back over his 
shoulder, he caught a momentary glimpse of the 
subject of their conversation and the object of all 
the plans of Murad, to attain which no scheme 
was too daring, no chance too desperate. Invol- 
untarily he paused — she was such a glowing incar- 
nation of the world’s desire. 

A boat resembling less the usual cangia of the 
Nile than a caique of the Bosphorus, but much 
shorter and a trifle wider, was coming slowly and 
gracefully down the stream running through the 
garden. The splendid palms cast a grateful shade 
upon the waters. Tamarinds and acacias made 
the foliage thicker. The white lotus flowers and 
a thousand magnolias in bloom shook out their 
perfume as the stars shake out their light. Two 
stalwart Nubians were propelling the craft; three 
maids, one of them a Bedouin, the others French, 
were playing on lutes a dreamy Arabian melody. 
Beneath a canopy of black and orange, supported 
32 


Near the Throne 


by quaint Moorish spears from which waved flags 
bearing the emblem of Egypt, on a profusion of 
fancy colored cushions embroidered with mystic 
arabesques, lay Nazira. The clinging gauzy dress 
in which she was clothed and the wide sash which 
girdled her hips, together emphasized the sensuous 
outlines of her form, lithe and svelte; the deli- 
cately moulded and tapering arms were bare, the 
left shoulder was visible through the thinnest silken 
drapery to which was pinned a large violet lily. 
She wore no rings, but the bright gold of her brace- 
lets, the bandeau with dangling sequins on her 
forehead, and the glistening jewels of the necklace 
on her bosom rising and falling gently with each 
breath, contrasted well with her skin’s dark hue. 
The features of the girl had that exquisite Gre- 
cian contour which distinguishes the more cultured 
of the Copts. Full of warm blood, her lips were 
scarlet ; full of spirit, her eyes were of a languor- 
ous brown. There was a witchery in the curve of 
her raven brows and the droop of her swarthy lids. 
And the girl’s countenance was so harmoniously 
framed with her lustrous hair, black as a night on 
the desert ; for its sheen had that strange purple 
tint which Nature sometimes gives to a child of 
Egypt. On her shoulder it rested, too abundant to 
be all coiled above the olive brow that only lacked a 
crown. How enchanting she looked — beautiful, 
resplendent, divine— yet a very earthly goddess ! 

3 33 


Near the Throne 


As the boat neared the bridge Marcel Balzar, 
habited in the green uniform with white lacings 
and cords of a captain in the light horse artillery, 
his regiment being the Twentieth Chasseurs, his 



only decoration the plain dull order of the Iron 
Crown, by his side his greatest friend and most 
prized gift — the sabre Napoleon wore at the battle 
of Aboukir — quite unseen by those afloat on the 
stream entered the garden at the gate. Filled 
with admiration of the picture presented to his 
view he could not restrain the exclamation : 

34 


Near the Throne 


“ The lily of the Orient ! ” 

Tinette, one of the maids, laid down her lute to 
tune a violin Nazira had handed her — accidentally 
a string broke. 

“Oh!” slipped from her mistress’s lips. “And 
it’s Marcel’s violin ! Who will help me fix it ? ” 

“ I will,” its owner answered, crossing the bridge. 

“You here, Monsieur Balzar?” Nazira re- 
sponded, quickly recovering from her surprise at 
seeing him. “ See what I’ve done.” 

“My favourite,” he said regretfully, taking the 
instrument and assisting her out of the boat. 

“What will you say to me? ” she asked, as the 
craft went on. 

“Nothing,” he .answered. 

“All the morning? That wouldn’t be very 
pleasant,” she admitted, handing him the violin. 
“You left it here yesterday.” 

“ Did I ? ” he asked, scarcely thinking of what 
he was saying. 

“You are getting very absent minded,” she 
suggested. 

“ Am I ? ” he answered in the same far away 
manner. 

“ Yes,” she added, toying with the flower which 
she had removed from its fastening, “so they 
say.” 

The last three words, always a synonym for 
possible omnipotence, seemed to recall him. 

35 



“ I wish I had such a lily/’ he said. 


Near the Throne 

“ I wish I had such a lily,” he said. 

“ You ? ” 

“ Yes — for my own,” 

“Why?” she asked, leaning upon the cushion 
on the pedestal. 

“ It is so beautiful,” he responded, as if the 
logic of Parthenia should be convincing to a girl 
who united the Massilian’s beauty with her own 
Egyptian. But when Nazira glanced at him, 
Balzar looked at the lily, and when she regarded 
the lily he watched her. 

“ What would you do with it ? ” 

“ Care for it, be its protector,” Marcel answered, 
his adoring gaze following her every movement, as 
he felt the sweet allurement of her melting eyes — 
“all a lover does for his idol.” 

“ Have you the intention to start a new religion, 
Monsieur Balzar ? ” she asked, giving him the lily. 
“ The adoration of flowers ? ” 

“ No, not a new one — but that old religion which 
is always as young as human hearts. For men 
worship at only one shrine.” 

“Do you know,” said Nazira changing the 
subject as the wind changes its course or a but- 
terfly its blossom, “I’m just longing for some 
music.” 

“ Shall we go to the kiosk ? ” he proposed. 

“Yes,” she agreed, sauntering off with him and 
looking at the violin. 


37 


Near the Throne 


“Then,” Captain Balzar said, “there is that 
secret I want to tell you.” 

“ I like to hear secrets,” Nazira confessed. 
“Why?” 

Men do ask such foolish questions sometimes. 



“Why?” she replied. “ A man’s query. Be- 
cause. ” 

“Because — a woman’s answer.” 

“ Because,” she acknowledged, “ I am a woman.” 
And her smile seemed to say that fact should be 
sufficient explanation of any phenomenon. “ You 
can tell them,” she resumed ; “ can you keep 

them?” 


38 


Near the Throne 


“ I think,” he ventured, “ a woman likes a man m 
who can keep a secret. ” 

“Yes,” the enchanting Egyptian assented, 
smiling at him and putting her hands behind 
her head, which she tossed back as they disap- 
peared together among the palms “ But a woman 
loves a man who can provide her with a secret to 
keep.” 



CHAPTER IV 


THE LADY AND THE GARTER 

Mademoiselle Chaumont came tripping into the 
garden with Ali and Halima, as full of life as the 
two children. 

“ I can run faster than you, Ali, ” said the girl 
to her brother. 

“ No you can’t,” answered Lucine for the child. 

“Yes I can!” his sister challenged. “Let’s 
race.” 

“ Ready ? ” said the governess. 

“ One, two, three — go ! ” 

Scampering past the bridge they disappeared 
just as Tinette came after them from the direc- 
tion of the house and Taschereau knocked at the 
gate. 

“It’s a fine day,” he volunteered, as though the 
maid were in need of information. 

“For crocodiles,” she replied, shaking her 
Titian curls, audacious as a gilded youth on a 
boulevard. There were stories current in parts of 
Paris about Tinette Fleury which she never took 
the trouble to contradict, that until she was nearly 
sixteen she masqueraded through the Latin quarter 
40 


Near the Throne 


dressed as a boy — and it was even said that she 
had aspirations to continue doing so, had not the 
development of her pretty figure made the disguise 
impossible. 

The effect which this reply had on the doughty 
inheritor of the Greek biographer’s name was as 
droll as that which music has on the hair of a 
virtuoso. 

“Yes,” he modestly assented, making a mental 
note of the sympathy between his locks and the 
tresses of which she might be pardoned for being 
proud. 

“ What have you ? ” queried the ci-devant dan- 
seuse. 

“ Everything they have in the great Capital,” 
replied the pedlar, putting down his pack. 

“Except beauty,” the Parisienne remarked to 
herself. Then aloud she said : “ Let me see.” 

“ The very thing,” Taschereau announced with 
confidence, opening one of the numerous packages 
the bundle contained and handing her some neatly 
folded papers. 

“ Poems ! ” she exclaimed. 

“ Ah, Mademoiselle ! ” the itinerant merchant 
ejaculated. “You are so ” 

“ But are you quite certain,” broke in the arch 
Antoinette, “they’re fit for me to read? You 
know I’ve only been married once.” 

“ Guaranteed magnificent, ” he assured her. 

4i 


Near the Throne 

“Shakespeare’s?” she inquired without look- 
ing up. 

“ No.” 

“Voltaire’s? ” 

“ No. I wrote them myself.” 

“Indeed? What beautiful ribbons!” the dan- 
seuse piped up, admiring the pink ornamentation. 

“ Read it,” urged Taschereau, straightening out 
the manuscript she was holding. 

“ What’s it called ? ” asked Mademoiselle Fleury. 

“ Look,” he said, pointing to the line. 

She read the caption : “ Ode to Posterity. ” 

“Grand title, isn’t it?” he declared, enthusing 
as authors are reputed to do like mothers over 
their own babies 

“But,” Tinette responded, tossing back her 
curly head, “ it will never reach its destination.” 

“ Eh ? ” 

“I’ll take the ribbon,” she decided tearing it 
off brusquely and putting it around her neck, 
then throwing the manuscript into the bag, “ you 
take the poem.” 

Taschereau the rhymer looked mortified, but 
Taschereau the pedlar was not a man to let litera- 
ture interfere with business. 

“Haven’t you anything for girls? Something 
to wear?” his so far unprofitable customer in- 
quired. 

“ Yes,” Plutarque returned handing her a small 
42 


Near the Throne 


box as he went on carelessly looking through some 
of the other packages and remarking, “poets are 
born, not made.” 

Opening the box she of the Titian hair ejacu- 
lated : “ It’s paint.” 

Still searching through the pack, the touring 
merchant ran on : “ But beauties are made, not 
born.” 

“ If this is all you have? ” Mademoiselle Fleury 
wanted to know, putting it in her pocket, “ you 
might as well ” 

“Wait a minute,” her countryman said eagerly; 
then he quietly added to himself : “ I’ll suit her this 
time.” For he had surmised that her disposition 
was likely to be as fiery as her hair was auburn. 

“ Well, be quick.” 

“ There,” he declared, giving her a hand mirror; 
“there’s something for girls — for men, too — and 
ladies.” 

"How pretty!” the Parisienne marvelled, look- 
ing at the frame and not listening to what he was 
saying. 

“How lovely!” he acquiesced, regarding her 
image in the glass. 

“What? The mirror?” 

“ No ! The picture in the mirror.” 

“ Have you anything else for girls ? ” 

“ Isn’t it sweet? ” he inquired, with an affirma- 
tive inflection and handing her a ring. 

43 


Near the Throne 

“Yes,” she agreed losing no time in putting it 
on. 

“ And that? ” he proceeded, giving her a brace- 
let. 

She tried impatiently but could not unfasten the 
clasp. 

“ Let me help you ? ” he proposed, suiting the 
action to the word. 

“ What else have you ? ” she deigned to ask, 
holding her hand in front of the glass. 

“I’m sure you’ll like these,” he answered, pass- 
ing her a pair of earrings. 

But the maid was unable to get the thin wire 
of the circlets through the piercing in either lobe. 

“Let me help you put them on,” Plutarque 
suggested, again coming at once to her assistance. 

“ Oh, they make such things in Paris ! ” Madem- 
oiselle sighed, ecstatically admiring herself in the 
glass. 

“ And they do such things!” Monsieur Tasch- 
ereau added. 

“ What?” 

“ That is,” he said apologetically, “ they know 
what girls like.” And at the same time he gal- 
lantly handed her a silver belt. “Bewitching, 
isn’t it?” he remarked. “Shall I help you put 
it on?” And he did so — taking rather a long 
time. 

“ How nice! ” Tinette exclaimed. 

44 


Near the Throne 

“ The sensation ? ” asked Plutarque, giving her 
a squeeze. 

“ No— the belt ! ” 

“That was made for a princess,” fibbed the 
wearer of the tricolour sash, showing her a coro 
net — then adding beneath his breath, “it was 
made for three francs.” 

“ How does it go? ” she piped up, puzzled as to 
the most appropriate way to wear the insignia. 

“ Let me help you put it on,” he responded, 
correctly assuming that she wished his aid. 

“Just sweet. Oh!” she gurgled with almost 
childish delight. 

“ In fact a couple of ohs ! ” ventured Taschereau, 
picturing the profit on this easy sale of most of 
his stock of alleged jewelry. 

“ I never knew,” she continued, “ that jewels 
suited me so well.” 

“ Oh — oh ! ” he warned her laughing. 

“And haven’t you anything else for girls? ” 

“Let me think,” he reflected, falling easily into 
quite a philosophic pose — his weight resting on the 
left leg, the right crossing it ; forefinger and thumb 
wandering over the stubble on his chin till they 
touched his underlip; his eyes looking seriously 
at his somewhat roseate nose. “ Ah, here they 
are ! ” he concluded, stooping down and offering 
her a pair of trinkets composed of yellow buckles 
and blue elastics/ 


45 


Near the Throne 


“ I always like blue.” 

“ Me too.” 

“ And gold.” 

“ Me too.” 

“But what are these?” Antoinette demanded, 
opening them out. 

He did not enlighten her. 

“ Garters! ” she exclaimed. 

“Shall I help you put them on?” he volun- 
teered. 

Fortunately — though Taschereau thought other- 
wise — Lucine came up at the moment. Tinette 
quickly put the garters behind her back. 

“ Oh, how beautiful ! ” burst out the Provencal, 
noticing the jewelry with which the maid was 
arrayed. “ Where did you get them ? ” 

“ From that gentleman.” 

Taschereau felt that he had won indeed. 
“ Gentleman now,” he murmured to himself. 
Then noticing Tinette tripping off he called : 
“ Wait ! You haven’t settled for those yet ! ” 

“ You say that to me ? ” she retorted with mock 
indignation. 

“Yes,” he assented. 

“To Mademoiselle Antoinette Fleury? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Then Fll pay you,” she declared, “in the coin 
of the realm.” 

“ Which?” 


46 


Near the Throne 

“ Mine ! ” she replied with an emphatic feminine 
pose. 

“ What’s that?” 

“ The cafe chantant — of the Latin quarter — of 
gay Paris ! ” 

“ Then a kiss ! ” he proposed. As an old news- 
paper man he should have known better. If you 
want anything from a woman, do without it — or 
take it. He who asks is lost. 

With marvellous grace and abandon she showed 
a knowledge of the light fantastic that many a 
man would consider ample compensation for 
a flagon of sapphires — and whirled off to the 
house. 

“Yes, really you can,” said Lucine reassur- 
ingly. 

“ But I won’t.” 

“Oh, do! And me too!” she urged. “Have 
you any more ? ” 

“ Lots.” 

“To fit me?” 

His eyes wandered down and up her figure. 

Mademoiselle Chaumont thought this a strange 
proceeding and took a step back 

“Just your size,” he decided. 

“Won’t it be nice?” She could not be ex- 
pected to perceive his meaning. 

“ Oh, yes,” he agreed, with a second's hesitation. 

“ Let me see them.” 


47 


Near the Throne 


“ Not here. Over there — let me see them,” 
he importuned with a different emphasis. 

“ Eh ? Do you think they’ll suit me as well as 
Tinette?” 

“ Oh, yes ! ” 

“ And will you help me put them on ? ” 

“ Yes — oh, yes ! ” 

But Lucine dismissed the gallant Plutarque at 
the gate — the children were coming. Monsieur 
Taschereau went down the road, lighter of pack 
and heavier of heart — crestfallen. 

Halima and Ali came running to Lucine. 

“Didn’t you see Nazira?” It was Halima that 
spoke. 

The Provencal answered very doubtfully : “ No — 
no.” 

“ O Lucine ! ” went on the child, “ and she looked 
so ” 

“And Marcel,” interrupted their governess, 
“Captain Balzar, didn’t he ” 

“ He looked that way too,” replied Halima, quick 
of perception and trying to imitate a mixture of 
sheepishness and happiness, which is usually the 
resultant appearance of a certain state of soul to 
third persons. 

“ But Worda? ” asked Lucine. 

“ She was so sad,” Halima responded. “ She 
just came up and kissed us, Ali and me, and ran 
away again.” 


48 


Near the Throne 


“ Don’t tell that to your father,” cautioned the 
girl. “ Do not forget : don’t say anything about 
Worda to your father. Come.” 

And she led them toward the house, passing 
Osman and Hassan among the trees. As Lucine, 
who always, like most metropolitan people, attended 
strictly to her own affairs and never meddled with 
nor inquired into those of others, saw the Bey with 
her master she could not avoid the reflection that 
it was for no good to Nazira and wondered what 
base proposition this man had made on behalf of 
the subtle Murad. 



CHAPTER V 


THREE MAGIC WORDS 

“ And what I have told you in regard to Balzar ? ” 
Osman was saying interrogatively. 

“Is in strict confidence,” answered Hassan. 
“ Besides I am not at all willing that Nazira 
should marry a European.” 

“ Perhaps,” went on the Bey, listening to the 
music of a violin floating through the palms, 
“ perhaps he is with her now — in the kiosk. ” 

“Murad is worthy of my daughter’s hand,” was 
the careful reply. “ I shall consider all you have 
said, Osman. And your master shall know my 
answer before many days have passed.” 

“ I thank you, Hassan,” the Moslem said bow- 
ing profoundly. “ Farewell.” 

“Farewell,” the Copt responded returning the 
salutation. Then to himself with brows knit as 
he returned to the house he meditated : “ There 
are reasons why Balzar should be forbidden. Is 
it true ? ” 

Osman watched the merchant from the bridge. 
Seeing him disappear he drew out a folded paper, 
which he had stolen from a table in the merchant’s 
5 ° 


Near the Throne 

counting room and concealed under his robe, 
muttering : 

“ Hassan, such a letter you should keep locked 
in your vault. I wonder if we can make use of 
this? I’ll take it to Murad.” 

The astrologer went quickly out the gate in 
the direction of his mas- 
ter's residence, which was 
now in the Palace of Sala- 
din. 

“ I am so fond of music,” 
said Nazira coming with 
Marcel from the kiosk. 

“ Aren’t you, Monsieur 
Balzar ? ” 

It is strange how two 
people will talk of anything 
that is farthest from their 
minds at the moment when 
both are thinking of what 
is nearest. 

“ Yes,” he answered. 

“That was such a pretty waltz we played.” 

“Very — A Dream of Happiness.” 

Lucine came up at the moment with a tray of 
refreshments. 

“ Thank you, Lucine,” said Nazira. “ Here, 
on this mound.” 

The Provencal obeyed and returned to the house. 

5 1 



Near the Throne 

“That sherbet looks tempting,” remarked Bal- 
zar. 

“ You must have some. I prefer coffee.” 

“ Will you permit me ? ” 

So he poured the coffee for Nazira, putting four 
or five heaped teaspoonfuls of sugar into the over- 
flowing cup, forgetful of everything as he looked 
into those fathomless eyes — instead of attending 
to what he was doing. She, seeing the fun of his 
imminent embarrassment, added to the mischief 
by tearing off and dropping into the sugar the 
petals of the lily — so that in a minute he had a 
queer mixture to account for. 

“I’m sure that will be delicious,” laughed 
Nazira, standing the spoon where the liquid ought 
to be. 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon ! ” 

But the deed was done. She enjoyed his pre- 
dicament, then relieved him by saying : 

“ I shall punish you by drinking some of your 
sherbet.” 

He handed her a cup — delicious as they know 
how to make that beverage only in the East. 

Leaning forward, Marcel said : 

“ Nazira.” 

“ How you repeat my name,” she answered, “as 
if it were a remark by itself.” 

“ There is something you must have no- 
ticed.” 


5 2 


Near the Throne 


“Yes,” she responded, questioningly sipping 
the sherbet “Where?” 

“ Have you ? ” 

“ I have noticed a great many things.” 

“ But I mean one. ” 

“ Which?” 

“ Something I have tried to conceal from you,” 
he persisted, growing so earnest that any one would 
see his meaning — except a girl who had decided 
to be blind. 

“ Then how could I have noticed it ? ” 

“ Only tried to. ” 

“You? From me? Why, I have always 
thought you very frank — and honest.” 

“Yes, I know, but I haven’t been.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ I have been keeping something back from 
you — something I should have told you months 
ago,” he said, looking intensely at her and asking 
with his gray eyes if she did not understand. “ I 
love you, Nazira; I love you!” he continued, 
watching for the slightest indication of favour. 

But there was none. 

“Tell me,” he pleaded, “may I — may I hope 
that you — love me ? ” 

“ I cannot give you the answer you would wish.” 

“ Do not say that.” 

“ But I have said it.” 

“ After a time you might grow a little fond of 
53 


Near the Throne 


me. Grant me a word, a look, Nazira, to tell me 
that by waiting ” 

“ 1 cannot,” she replied without giving him the 
opportunity to finish. 

He knew that the maid who smiles is half taken, 
but of this truth the Copt seemed an alluring con- 
tradiction. 

“ I would be patient,” he prayed her, scanning 
the ground hopelessly and listening to the music 
from the boat coming nearer. 

Glancing shyly at him, the young Egyptian 
slowly and timidly took his hand. Before his sur- 
prise had time to crystallize into a word he heard 
her saying : 

“You may do more than hope. They say I have 
no heart, but I have — and it’s all for you ! ” 

She was in his arms now. The strains of the 
lutes floating through the palms, softer than the 
songs of birds, came to them as sweet messengers. 

“Fond of you?” she added, “I love you, 
Marcel ! ” 

Nazira placed all her faith in the passion that is 
the root of all the good and evil in the world ; and 
she was not afraid nor ashamed to avow it. The 
woman who does not believe in love is either a 
eunuch or a courtesan. 

“ My precious ! ” he responded, in the ecstasy 
of hearing from her those three magic words, and 
kissing her and slipping a ring on her finger. 

54 


Near the Throne 


“ I so love you ! ” 

“ Nazira!” 

At that same moment the boat passed the land- 
ing and Lucine entered the garden 

“Your father,” she said to Nazira, “wishes to 
speak with you.” 

“ I shan't be long,” said Nazira to Balzar, her 
voice full of new happiness. 

And he answered : 

“ I’ll wait for you in the kiosk.” 

As they went their separate ways, two Egyptians 
appeared at the gate — and in their scowl there was 
unscrupulous and fearless malignity. 



CHAPTER VI 


A NEW USE FOR A STAR 

“ The course of custom is too slow,” Murad com- 
plained as he entered the garden with his com- 
panion. Then, as if seeing a possible way out of 
the difficulty, he added: “But Nazira’s family 
does not adhere to all our laws. ” 

“ She will be back in a few moments,” continued 
Osman, observing Hassan through the foliage 
talking to his daughter on the steps of the house. 

“I’m going to speak to her myself,” the Pasha 
resolved crossing the bridge. “ With such a let- 
ter,” he continued, withdrawing it from beneath 
the folds of his robe and giving the Bey an approv- 
ing glance, “this may be the time.” 

“ She is coming,” said the old man. 

“ Watch for a signal,” suggested Murad confi- 
dentially tapping him on the shoulder. “ I may 
need you. ” 

“ I shall be waiting,” was the answer of the wily 
astrologer, with a gesture indicating a secluded 
spot behind a cluster of palms near the gate. 

“Take care,” said his master. “ The lover may 
return. ” 


56 


Near the Throne 


Osman sought his hiding place. 

Seeing Murad, who greeted her with a saluta- 
tion that had all the respect of an Oriental salaam 
united with the polish of a courtier of the first 
Empire, Nazira bowed and would have passed on, 
being eager to reach the kiosk, had not Murad 
stopped her. 

“ Nazira,” the Pasha said, “ would you like to 
help your father ? ” 

“ Help my father ? ” the girl answered in sur- 
prise, unenlightened by the faintest glimmer of 
his meaning. 

“You may be able to,” he went on with much 
insinuation. 

“ How ? ” she asked. 

“ It is always dangerous to hate a conqueror,” 
he said very suavely. Then with a searching 
directness of glance and assertion he added : 
“ Your father hates Bonaparte. ” 

“ How do you know ? ” 

“His money is all invested in English securi- 
ties.” 

“ That is no proof. ” 

“ But this is,” he argued, producing the letter 
and holding it just near enough for the daughter 
to recognize her father’s writing and to read a few 
of the incriminating words. 

Naturally the girl tried to take it. 

“ Oh, no,” Murad replied, putting her hand 
57 


Near the Throne 

away. “ It’s a letter— you recognize the signa- 
ture ? ” 

“ Give it to me,” she said. 

“To Admiral Nelson,” he pursued, “of the 
British fleet at Alexandria — giving the plans of 



Napoleon’s fortifications and the future movements 
of his army.” 

“ Of what use is the letter to you? ” she ques- 
tioned. 

“ None,” he admitted. 

“ Then ” 

“But — to you? Nazira, that scrap of paper 
58 


Near the Throne 


placed in the hands of Bonaparte — and your father 
would be at once court- martialled and shot.” 

“ But you are not going to do it ? ” 

“ No — because I want his daughter for my wife. 
I would have no other, but her alone. Nazira, 



I’m mad for you-r— I love you ! Come with me to 
the garden — and I’ll give you the letter. Come ! ” 

“Do you think I am a courtesan?” she de- 
manded. 

“ No ! ” he replied. “ But I think you would 
be willing to save your father.” 

“ At such a cost ? ” she retorted, becoming 
more indignant. 


59 


Near the Throne 


“ Is marriage with me so great a sacrifice ? 
Then this letter goes to Bonaparte ! ” the Saracen 
announced, walking rapidly toward the gate with- 
out a look behind. 

But as he crossed the bridge Nazira called : 

“ Murad ! Murad ! ” 

The Pasha glanced over his shoulder to listen. 

*• I’ll buy the letter ! ” she offered. “ I’ll get 
you any price.” 

“ My price?” 

“ My father has money ! ” 

“ Money?” he rejoined turning on her with 
laughing scorn. 

“ Yes ! ” 

“ Of what use is that to me ? I have millions ! ” 

The Pasha hastened as far as the gate, knowing 
neither mercy nor pity. The girl in despair for 
her father ran after him and cried : 

“ Murad! I’ll do it!” 

He met her with a look of victory mingled with 
suspicion. Together they retraced their steps, 
her hand in his — she loathing his touch, yet smil- 
ing upon him out of her tempting eyes with the 
long lashes like rays of darkness. Such eyes, 
when the time comes, can be treacherous. 

“To hold you in my arms,” said Murad. 
“ You’ll keep your word? ” 

“ I always do.” 

“ It’s not gold I want,” he resumed in low 
60 


Near the Throne 


carnal tones, as they sat down upon the mound 
where the rug lay spread — " it’s love — such love 
as you can give.” 

Osman was watching. 

Then Nazira, fully conscious of the stake she 
was playing for and the risk she was running, 



twined her soft warm arms about Murad’s neck and 
breathing all her passion into the words, answered : 
“ I’ll love you ! ” 

She was so sensuous, this ravishing creature, 
Murad gave her the letter. 

Instantly the girl’s whole manner changed. 

The Pasha frowned, but said nothing. 

6 1 


Near the Throne 


“ I’ll take it to my father — to destroy,” she said, 
laying the paper safely at her side remote from 
Murad. And the enchanting tones had left her 
voice. 

“ Not yet,” he urged. 

“ Let me go now,” she begged and promised 
reassuringly, “ I’ll return to you.” 

Murad signalled to Osman. The old astrologer 
crept slyly toward the letter. 

But Balzar, with that weakness characteristic of 
lovers, had grown impatient, and returning to look 
for Nazira, strolled into this part of the garden 
just in time to see what was happening. His im- 
mediate thought was to rush forward, strike Murad, 
and denounce the traitress who was so false to her 
vows. But the action of Osman suggested a 
second theory — which was confirmed on observing 
the Bey purloin the small document ; so that the 
captain’s enmity was all for the Pasha when he 
heard him, with a gesture toward the more secluded 
portion of the enclosure where there was much 
shadow and thick foliage, say to his own be- 
trothed : 

“ Come further into the garden first.” 

“Afterward,” she demurred. 

Osman, with his eyes fixed on Nazira, in order 
to be sure she did not see him, was slinking back- 
ward. This was Balzar’s opportunity to step to 
the bridge and intercept the Bey. He was always 
62 


Near the Throne 


ready — therefore took the risk. Osman backed 
right into Balzar. This case was to be won now 
not by wit, but by force. Marcel grasped the old 
man’s wrists with a grip of iron, quickly and si 
lently wrested the letter from him, then left him 
to recover from his astonishment sprawling on the 
bridge, while he himself walked forward — and 
waited. 

“No, no,” Murad importuned — “you have filled 
my blood with passion.” 

“ I’ll just give it,” she pleaded. Then missing 
the paper she burst out : “ The letter ! ' 

“ I gave it to you. ” 

“ And I put it there. Where is it ? ” 

“ I don’t know. ” 

“ For once you told the truth ! ” said Balzar 
with quiet intensity, and stepping between them. 
“Here it is.” 

“ Then you stole it ! ” replied Murad. 

“ Did I ? ” replied the Captain, giving it to 
Nazira and checking her impulse to tear the com- 
promising thing into fragments. “ For what pur- 
pose ? ” 

“We shall see.” 

Nazira opened out the letter. Balzar saw the 
inkless sheet. 

“ It’s a blank ! ” he exclaimed. 

And the girl added contemptuously : 

“ The trick is ” 


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Near the Throne 

“ Mine ! ” interrupted Murad with an air of 
triumph. 

Both looked at him in surprise and anger. 

“ The letter is here ! ” the Pasha gloried, hold- 
ing it up. 

Instantly Captain Balzar’s sabre leaped from its 



scabbard. In any question that was to be decided 
by a fair and open fight he was the last man to 
hesitate. 

But in the same second Murad, pointing proudly 
to the star of the Cross of the Legion of Honour 
on his breast, retorted in warning : 

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“ And I serve Napoleon.” 

Balzar, forced by his knowledge of this fact to 
refrain from the attack, replied simply as he tight- 
ened his hold on the hilt of his sabre : 

“ You viper ! ” 

But this brought to an issue a feud that could 
end only with the death of one of them. Balzar 
determined that it should not be the soldier of 
France. Murad resolved that it should not be the 
prince of the Mamelukes of Egypt. 

It had begun in terrible earnest, the mortal 
struggle between these two enemies — for the 
crown — and for a woman. 



FIRST INTERLOGUE 


FOUR MONTHS HAVE ELAPSED 

Love is the only good in the world. 

Henceforth be loved as heart can love, 

Or brain devise, or hand approve. 

— Robert Browning 

With time all lovers are prodigals. Yet to 
them lightning does not pass more quickly. Four 
months glided by swiftly. Yet in that brief period 
how much progress may be made by conspirators 
for empire or by victims of Cupid ! Ambition 
was afoot in Cairo — and throughout the realm. 
But even that relentless tyrant, to which the 
greatest give homage as the one supreme god of 
life, is worshipped only that the prize cast to the 
kneeling devotee may help that poor toiler to win 
some woman’s love. For all man struggles for, 
he struggles but to lay it at her feet — hoping she 
may smile with eyes and lips and that her arms 
may be soft to him. Murad, subtle, diplomatic, 
knowing well that the people are the final arbiters 
on all questions of power, was assiduously becom- 
ing more popular every day and was now awaiting 
a suitable opportunity to make a dash for the 
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throne. But he was ever under the watchful eye 
of Balzar. And he and Nazira — the hours they 
passed, Marcel and the Egyptian — the moments 
they lived — earthly enough to be divine! Some 
times hand to hand, lip to lip, they felt the sweet 
magic of the warm touch of flesh to flesh — and 
wandered far along the paths of paradise. 





Bool? Uwo 

TO BREAK A HEART 
































































CHAPTER I 


A SPARKLING INSPIRATION 

The surgery of Marcel Balzar, a French house 
with Parisian furnishings — not far down the road 
from the garden of Hassan. 

On two walls several shelves with many bottles 
and small boxes ranged in rows. 

In the third wall a very large open window led 
up to by five steps. The white lace curtains dec- 
orated with eagles and the walls with scarabees. 
Here and there a wreath of laurel encircling the 
letter N. 

Rather scant foliage growing in a narrow garden 
outside. Beyond this the road, along which an oc- 
casional dromedary swayed. 

The window commanding a fine view of Cairo : 
the citadel with its splendid dome, the Eastern 
houses with their flat roofs, the mosques with their 
towering minarets. 

Just to the right of a door leading to the rest of 
the house a steep and narrow staircase on the wall 
running up to the private apartments of the phy- 
sician. It had a low and very ornamental balus- 
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trade that looked as though it might have been 
stolen from some old Italian palace and brought 
here to adorn the temporary residence of an officer 
in the army of the Great Devastator. 

Across the room a small open desk with a bullet 
hole through it. Close to the chair behind the 
desk three muskets with their bright bayonets 
fixed and stacked as in a camp. And leaning 
against them a fourth without the weapon of the 
charge. 

In a cage on a plain oak table standing in a 
corner between the window and the staircase, a 
parrot, arranging its feathers with much contempla- 
tion, remarked : 

“ Polly ! Pretty Polly ! ” 

Madame Balzar entered the room at the moment 
carrying on a tray her son’s lunch, plain but dainty. 

“ Marcel is too tired,” she said half aloud to 
herself, with motherly solicitude, “ after coming 
from the hospital.” 

Then the pet of the family in the cage cocked 
its head to look at her. 

“ Polly wants a cracker? ” she asked. 

“ Foo-wit ! ” came the answer in a whistle. 

So she robbed her son of a trifle — and anoth- 
er — to reward the green and hungry little despot. 

“ Foo-wit ! ” it whistled its thanks as she left 
the room. “ Foo-wit — foo-wit ! ” 

Just then Monsieur Carmier entered the sur- 
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gery with the blustering Plutarque Taschereau. 
The pedlar had lately become the private secre- 
tary of Balzar. He was better dressed, but re- 
joiced in the same patriotic sash and the same 
chronic thirst. As usual he was chaperoned by a 
black bottle, which was now empty. His em- 
ployer ostensibly censured this weakness of the 
journalist, but for the sake of old acquaintance 
really connived at it. Just at present Plutarque 
felt exhilarated — that was all — but eager : the full 
effects had not yet appeared from his appreciative 
draughts of Burgundy. Both paused a moment 
and listened. 

From a mosque across the way came the call of 
a Moslem priest and the weird chanting of der- 
vishes to the tap of primitive drums, accompanied 
by sweet piping : 

“ Allah, allah, allah, ai ! ” 

“ The c-c-call to prayer,” said Carmier. “ Noon.” 

“ Didn’t know it was so late.” 

“ G-g-going?” 

“I thirst,” said the genial Taschereau, sitting 
down to the table, unfolding the napkin and 
throwing it across his knee. 

“ Was there ever a time when you didn’t ? ” 
questioned the more abstemious Alphonse, look- 
ing very quizzically through his monocle. 

“Never!” was the prompt admission. ‘My 
thirst’s my best friend — never deserts me.” 

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“ What a c-c-clever idea ! ” 

“ I think his mother might give Monsieur le 
Docteur a better lunch. It’s a charity to eat 
it up.” 

“Why?” asked the Gascon, expecting to see 
the sash expand, so rapidly did the ruddy Tascher- 
eau devour the fowl. 

“This chicken is thirteen years old.” 

“ Unlucky. H-h-h-how can you tell ? ” 

“ By the teeth.” 

“ Ch-ch-chickens don’t have teeth.” 

“ No, but I have.” 

“ You’ve been reading Sophocles again ! ” 

“ Sapristi ! ” exclaimed Plutarque, ignoring this 
accusation of plagiarism as every good journalist 
should. “ I wouldn’t offer that to Murad, ” com- 
plained the philosophic revolutionist tossing the 
wish-bone out of the window. 

“ Indeed? ” smiled Alphonse. 

“ I wouldn’t throw it to a poodle.” 

“ But you did,” laughed the faultless blond, 
looking down the road. “There g-goes Osman.” 

“ Carmier.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Why is this rooster like a riddle ? ” 

“ R-r-rooster, r-r-riddle — r-riddle — r-r-rooster. 
Why is that r-rooster like a riddle? ” he struggled 
out, the words apparently being as difficult as the 
enigma, Taschereau accompanying and exaggerat- 
74 


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in g the stutterer’s grimaces, when Carmier finally 
admitted : “ I d-d-don’ t know.” 

“Because,” Plutarque replied, wrapping the re- 
mainder in the napkin and pushing it from him, 
“ I give it up.” 

“ P-p-precisely, ” agreed Alphonse, making for 
the door in disgust. 

“ Nobody knows how dry I am — my throat’s like 
— the Sahara ! ” wailed he of the terrible yearning. 

“Foo-wit!” whistled the parrot as Carmier 
slammed the door. 

“ Hello, Poll ! ” said Taschereau sauntering 
around the surgery and scanning eagerly all that 
came within his range of vision. “ Bottles, bottles 
everywhere — and not a drop to drink. I have 
such a thirst, it’s just burning me up,” he con- 
fessed to the bird, at the same time taking down 
a decanter. “ Water ! Sapristi ! ” Next a wine 
bottle with a preliminary glance at the label : 
“ Soothing syrup ! ” Then another, first remov- 
ing the cork and smelling the contents : “ More 
of the stuff. I wonder if Balzar takes me for 
twins — or a baby farm ? ” Looking over a row 
of bottles, one seemed promising: “Ah, here’s 
something ! ” he ejaculated anticipating the fluid 
he revelled in and removing the cork : “ Castor 
oil ! Worse ! ” 

“ Polly ! ” said the parrot, as if twitting him on 
his disappointment. 


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But Plutarque Taschereau, like those explorers 
who search for the North Pole, was not to be 
discouraged. 

“ I wish — I wish I could get some of those nice 
mixtures they have in Paris,” he sighed taking 
down another bottle and reading the label : “ Paris 
Green. Sapristi ! I’m not a cabbage head — even 
if I wasn’t born in Ireland. Since Balzar made 
me his private secretary I’ve never been in good 
spirits — or they’ve never been in me. He’s too 
strict,” he ran on sniffing something in the air as 
a camel sniffs an oasis. “ Where is it? ” he ques- 
tioned, following his nose to a bottle of Benedic- 
tine at the other side of the room and clasping it 
with joy. “This needs no label,” he declared, 
drinking again and again. “ Needs nothing — not 
even a cork.” 

“ Wine for a king ! ” chimed in the wise parrot, 
evidently having heard the phrase often. 

After a few minutes of blissful imbibition, Plu- 
tarque blurted out the discovery to himself : 
“ Nearly empty ! ” 

“ Another ! ” struck in the observer in the cage. 

The tippler filled up the bottle with water from 
the despised decanter. 

The parrot joined his whistle to Taschereau’s 
yell just as Carmier returned and remarked : 

“ T-t-two of them.” 

“ Yesh,” acquiesced Taschereau. 

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Near the Throne 


“ Do I interrupt ? ” asked the faultless Al- 
phonse stroking his waxed mustache. 

“ Not an interrupt,” answered the owner of the 
tricolour sash swinging the ends. The Burgundy 
was now uniting forces with the Benedictine, and 
the two liquids were evidently having a banquet 
of their own in the interior of the Frenchman. 

“Ah ! ” exclaimed the young accountant. 

“ Ah ! ” repeated Taschereau, with a smack of 
the lips as he swallowed another drink. 

“ What are you up to, T-t-taschereau ? ” 

“’S that Carmier, old fellow? It’sh warm day. 
Have some,” he said handing the bottle. “And 
thish dry wine,” he ran on not knowing by this 
time just exactly what it was. 

“And this,” answered Carmier, returning it, 
“is a d-d-dry b-bottle.” 

“ The cat’s-paw ! ” muttered Taschereau point- 
ing at Osman passing the window, as he himself 
stumbled toward the door. 

“ Is Monsieur Balzar at home ? ” asked the old 
trickster putting his head in. 

“ Not preshent,” answered the surgeon’s private 
secretary, his tongue a bit thick. 

“ Are you sure ? ” queried the Bey suspecting 
the statement. 

“ By the beard of the Prophet ! ” swore Tas- 
chereau. 

“ Is he expected soon ? ” 

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“Any moment,” was the hiccoughed answer. 

“Then I shall call again this morning.” 

“ May the blessing of Allah always follow you,” 
replied Taschereau — then, when the door was shut 
behind the astrologer, he added, “ and never over- 
take you.” 

“ Amen,” responded Alphonse, fervently. 

“ What’sh on thish label, Carmier? ” asked the 
elder man, changing the subject and reverting to 
the question that he had found puzzling. 

“ L-latin,” answered the younger, following the 
custodian of the coveted bottle up the steps to 
the window. 

Taschereau replied with a look of disgust : 
“ What’s it mean ? ” 

“ I th-th- thought you were a scholar.” 

“Me scholar?” he roared hiccoughing and 
laughing. “ They tried me with their books. 
But learning isn’t in my line. They taught me 
Latin — tried to. Sapristi ! It was no go. All 
the Latin I construe is : amo, I love. Have 
shome more,” he implored, stretching the bottle 
out, but returning it to his own lips. 

Monsieur Carmier had dropped his monocle 
and was staring out into the street. 

“ Whatsh matter? ” asked the jolly convivialist 
rolling down the steps. They never seem to hurt 
themselves. 

“ Mademoiselle Tinette Fleury ! ” answered Al- 
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Near the Throne 


phonse running to the door and opening it with 
avidity and every evidence of satisfaction. “ She’s 
coming here with the other girls.” 

In they came merrily, attired so that they looked 
like dainty Parisian confections, four of them, 
Lucine last. 

“ A shong ! ” Taschereau shouted at once, being 
in just that humur. 

“ But first a toast ! ” put in the polite Alphonse 
quickly filling glasses for all. “To the girls from 
the banks of the Seine ! ” 

The glasses clicked and were emptied. 

“ Fill again ! ” shouted Tinette. 

“ Fill ! ” echoed Taschereau. 

“The toast?” asked Carmier. He himself 
wanted to suggest the Lily of the Orient, but did 
not dare. 

“To the daughters of the Nile,” proposed 
Mademoiselle Fleury. 

They drank with vim — for they’re liberal, those 
Parisiennes. To the men it was irresistible : in 
the sparkle of the wine they saw black eyes steal- 
ing shy glances over the top of thin veils, felt the 
enticement that lurks in a yashmak. 

“ Now then,” ventured the rather timourous 
Lucine, “ another ! ” 

“What is it?” 

“To Le Beau Sabreur! ” she answered. 

And Tinette added : 


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“ Captain ” 

Then Carmier : 

“ Marcel ” 

Finally Taschereau 

“ Balzar ! ” 

Again the brimming glasses clicked as they re- 
peated the popular toast : 

“ Le Beau Sabreur ! ” 

“ You should be in good voice after your swim,” 
suggested Monsieur Carmier to the girls. 

“ Early thish morning in the Nile,” added Tas- 
chereau jogging their apparently failing memories. 

They looked surprised. It is a feminine right. 

“ Oh, I saw you,” Plutarque protested, not at 
all willing to regard them as innocent fawns. 

“And Mademoiselle Chaumont. ” 

“ So did Carmier.” 

“ Imitating the f-fair daughter of Pharaoh.” 

“ But,” laughed Lucine acknowledging their out- 
ing and referring to the same renowned maiden, 
“we have no fairy tales.” 

“ What did you think of my new bathing suit ? ” 
asked Tinette. 

And Taschereau replied : 

“ There washn’t ’nough of it to form an opinion 
on.” 

“ But the song ! ” said Carmier. 

“ I’m going to a teacher,” announced Tas- 
chereau; “ to have my voice tried.” 

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Near the Throne 


This was the opportunity for the Titian hair to 
prove its colour. Winking to Lucine she turned 
and said to the aspiring vocalist : 

“ Why don’t you go to a magistrate ? He might 
give you a year in the Bastille for it ! ” 

“ The song,” insisted Carmier, “ from Made- 
moiselle Chaumont ! ” 

“From Tinette!” seconded the young gover- 
ness, who, according to report, had once herself 
done small parts at the opera in Paris. 

“No,” replied the former chanteuse, who, not- 
withstanding spasmodic efforts in that direction, 
had never been able to obliterate entirely from her 
manners the traces of the soubrette that through a 
long and thorough apprenticeship seemed to have 
gotten insidiously into her corpuscles. “From 
Lucine first. ” 

“A song from Mademoiselle Lucine!” echoed 
Carmier, secretly glad and preferring to second 
this request. “ Mademoiselle Lucine ! ” 

“ After Tinette !” answered the Provencal. 

“ Tinette ! ” called Taschereau. “ And a dance ! ” 

“ Tinette ! ” came in chorus from the rest. 
“ And a dance!” 

They expected Mademoiselle Fleury with all 
her abandon and verve to burst forth in one of 
those somewhat naughty ballads, jingling with 
lingerie and gaiety that are turned on in the cafe 
world of the radiant Capital when the cigarette 
6 8 1 


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smoke curls thick along the ceiling — but instead 
she mounted the table, and, holding up a brimming 
glass of the sparkling inspiration, proposed their 
health in a verse of her own : 

“ Now here’s to the girl who’s a rollicking boy, 

Here’s to the lads when they’re youthful, 

Here’s to the dashing carouser’s gay toy, 

Here’s to the flirts that are truthful.” 

Holding up a brimming glass and swaying with 
the rhythm she sang the chorus : 

“ Pass the canteen, drink to the queen, 

Toast dimpled chins, without any sins ; 

Pass the canteen, drink to the queen, 

Toast to the man who wins ! ” 

Raising daintily just the edge of her skirt she 
went on, the toes of the others beating time : 

‘ ‘ So, here’s to the hoyden whose capers you prize, 

Now for the speech that’s witty ; 

Here’s to the nymph with the naughty blue eyes, 

Now to the ankle that’s pretty ! ” 

They all picked up the chorus this time, as their 
lifted glasses clinked : 

‘ ‘ Pass the canteen, drink to the queen, 

Toast dimpled chins, without any sins; 

Pass the canteen, drink to the queen, 

Toast to the man who wins ! ” 

“ Bravo ! ” they shouted. “ Bravo ! Tinette ! 
Encore ! Encore ! ” 


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So Mademoiselle Vivacity sang on : 

“ Well, now on the happiest day of my birth, 

Here’s to the man who misses ! 

Now on the merriest night of our mirth, 

Here’s to my witching kisses! ’ 

Without waiting for them to join in she changed 
the chorus a bit, the others swinging with the 
music : 

‘ ‘ Pass the canteen, drink to the queen, 

Toast future bliss, and never dismiss; 

Pass the canteen, drink to the queen, 

I give you my good-bye kiss. ” 

Jumping down from the table Tinette touched 
her fingers to her lips again and quickly ran out of 
the room, while they all clapped their hands with 
convivial enthusiasm and called : 

“ Bravo ! ” 

“ Bravo ! ” bawled the parrot. 

Carmier went after the favourite and brought her 
back. 

“ Gargon ! ” shouted Taschereau apparently 
thinking he was back in his old haunts again. 
“ Garmon ! More absinthe ! ” 

With the dashing refrain of the song they started 
the dance— the six — when suddenly Tinette cried 
in warning : 

“ Monsieur Balzar ! ” 

A glance out of the window sufficed for proof. 

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Near the Throne 


“ With Nazira ! ” added Lucine. 

Plutarque was suddenly filled with a sense of 
duty and a burning anxiety to clear the surgery. 

“ Thish way ! ” he said pointing to the door 
leading to the rest of the house. 

They went out dancing. They probably finished 
the step in another room, but they disappeared 
just in time. 



CHAPTER II 


THE LIFE OF A KISS 

“Every one speaks well of you,” said Nazira 
coming into the surgery from the street with her 
fiance. 

“I hope not,” he answered with a deprecating 
smile. “ It’s bad form to have a good reputation.” 

“ Marcel ! ” she exclaimed surprised at this 
frank avowal of cosmopolitan unconventionality. 
But his glance and laugh were reassuring. She 
knew his penchant for saying certain things merely 
for the expression’s sake. 

Even had she wished, Nazira could not have 
helped observing the increased ornamentation of 
this Gallic room. It all tended toward the imper- 
ial. The savants who accompanied Bonaparte to 
the Orient busied themselves with the invention 
of new emblems and insignia for the empire he 
dreamed of founding. But for the monogram the 
young Corsican esteemed most highly, Balzar 
had a meaning of his own : to his heart it stood 
for Nazira — the wreath of laurel encircling the 
letter N. 


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Near the Throne 


Leading her to a chair, the Captain changed the 
subject by remarking: 

“ You heard that Napoleon is leaving Cairo? ” 
“Today?” she asked, always eager to hear of 
new developments in the campaign. 

“ Yes,” he replied. “ For Palestine.” 

What the little Corsican’s- designs were on the 
Holy Land was of small moment to Nazira. Her 
interest was in her own country and its fate. This 
was quite evident from her immediate inquiry : 

“ Who is to govern Egypt ? ” 

“ Murad. ” 

“ Really ? ” said the girl, astonished at what she 
regarded as a weak streak of gullibility on the part 
of the ambitious young artilleryman that he should 
be so easily ensnared by the artful blandness of 
the Pasha. 

“He has apparently gained great favour with 
Bonaparte,” explained Captain Balzar, “and our 
General seems to consider it a wise stroke during 
his own absence to make Murad supreme.” 

“Why so?” she questioned. 

“ Because of the prestige of the Pasha,” was the 
prompt reply. But it was unsatisfactory. Being 
a physician Marcel should have known the folly 
of assigning the real reason. If you ever want a 
woman to disbelieve you, tell her the truth. 

Nazira tossed back her head with a frown fol- 
lowed by a gesture of impatience. The intuition 
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Near the Throne 


of a feminine mind often brings a quick percep- 
tion of the credulity of a masculine mind. Wo- 
man has a geometry that in the art of war — for 
hearts or sceptres — derides that of Euclid and 
draws new charts for occupants of thrones and 
pullers of triggers, knowing that Caesar and 
Tommy Atkins are brothers under the skin and 
remembering always that an arrow from the bow 
of Cupid is often more accurate of aim and deadly 
of effect than the torpedo from a gun of Krupp. 
But no woman ever knew all the plans of Bona- 
parte, the arch strategist. 

Had Nazira turned her head a little farther she 
would have seen Murad and the astrologer stand- 
ing and watching them through the window at the 
back of the surgery. They had come to see the 
doctor, and the path to the door led past the 
window. There they stood in the flitting gleams 
of sunlight that filtered through the leaves of 
the gently swaying trees to the casement — two 
men whose hearts were as swarthy as their faces, 
and who had never been drawn away from any 
purpose or desire by any principle or fear. 

“You have not forgotten,” continued Captain 
Balzar, “ that before Napoleon crossed the Medi- 
terranean, Egypt was ruled by twenty-four beys, 
and the twenty-four beys were ruled by Murad 
and Ibrahim.” 

“And shall be again,” muttered the crafty 
*7 


Near the Throne 

conspirator beneath his breath to Osman — “by 
Murad alone.’' 

“At the head of the Mamelukes,” answered 
Nazira with warm patriotism ; “ the best and most 
invincible cavalry in the world.” 

“Ibrahim is dead,” Marcel reminded her — “de- 
stroyed with the Mamelukes at the Battle of the 
Pyramids. As for Murad, he professes to have 
been won over to the cause of Napoleon.” 

Murad laughed in derision. 

“ But surely- ” 

“Ah, that’s just it,” Marcel said, anticipating 
her exclamation of wonderment and glancing 
around. 

But the two men had disappeared. 

“The little Corsican is no fool,” the Parisian 
resumed. “ He has hold of a wet eel by the 
tail — and he knows it. He has left Murad to 
look after Egypt, but he has left a French soldier 
to look after Murad. ” 

“And the name of that French soldier is?” 
she asked, surmising the fact. 

“ Balzar,” he admitted. 

She looked at him with an expression of mingled 
surprise and disapproval. 

“ I am here to care for the wounded in the 
hospital,” he maintained, then with a subtle in- 
tonation added — “ and to watch the crafty in the 
Citadel.” 


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Near the Throne 


“ Secret service is dangerous,” said Nazira, fear- 
ing as all girls do for the safety of her lover. 

“ I know,” he replied. 

“Murad is daring,” she cautioned. 

“Others are too,” answered the Captain of the 
Twentieth Chasseurs. “ My sword is at my side, 
and with it I shall go far. I have a great trust to 
fulfil.” 

Nazira was apparently satisfied — at least of the 
futility of warning. Then she said : 

“ Father is coming to see you today, and he 
wants me to call with him. I don’t know what 
he wishes to speak with you about.” 

“ I shall be at home all morning.” 

“ Marcel.” 

“Yes.” 

“ I promised to show you a little portrait. ” 

“ Of your mother,” he added as she withdrew an 
ivory miniature from beneath the folds of her dress. 

“There it is,” she said handing it to him. 

He looked at it a moment, while she regarded 
his countenance. 

“ It is the image of yourself ! ” he exclaimed. 

She smiled at his enthusing so much. 

“ Will you give it me? ” he asked. 

“ Oh ! ” she responded. “ I could not part with 
it. She was so fond a mother.” 

“For a little while then?” he begged sitting 
down beside her. “ Until to-morrow? ” 

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Near the Throne 



" It seems so long now, Marcel, to wait for each 
tomorrow,” she confessed, answering his caress. 
“ I want to be in your presence all the time.” 

“ And I in yours, dearie.” 

Then thinking perhaps of the bags of gold and 
silver in her father’s vault 
in the counting room, 
Nazira continued : 

“Love is not like 
pieces of base coin that 
we can spend or hoard 
up.” 

“ No,” he agreed, his 
arm encircling her. 

“ Love is our life,” she 
went on. “ We lavish or 
withhold it all.” 

“ And you have giv- 


“ All I have,” she re- 
plied. 

“ Nazira ! ” Marcel exclaimed rapturously. 

“ But I wish I had not.” 

“ Nazira ! ” he said again in astonishment, draw- 
ing away his arm and looking her full in the face. 
It was the coming of a speck of cloud on the 
horizon. 

“ For then,” she gloried, “ I should have more 
to give.” 


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Near the Throne 


This was the swift dissolving of the cloud as if 
in the warmth of the noonday sun. He pressed 
her closely to him, so that she must have felt the 
quick throbbing of his heart. 

At that moment the two Egyptians appeared 
again just outside the window. 

“ Ah, Murad ! ” marvelled Osman, anxious to 
make his master more eager. The astrologer 
knew well how highly the counsellor is esteemed 
who advises the pursuit of a client’s own inclina- 
tion. 

“ Sweetheart,” Marcel added smoothing Nazira’s 
hair. 

“ Look upon her,” urged the Bey. “ What a 
perfect woman ! ” 

“ And do you really love me, Marcel ? ” asked 
Nazira, seeking over again the assurance that a 
surrendered heart demands so frequently. 

“ Think,” continued the old man as he per- 
ceived the Pasha’s interest increasing and his blood 
mounting, “ that face ” 

“ O Nazira ! ” said Balzar, “ you know I do. Do 
you not ? ” 

“Yes,” she answered, nestling closer. 

“ Those eyes ” Osman pursued, himself con- 

templating their languorous glow. 

“ But sometimes,” replied Nazira, “ a woman 
likes to be told the things she knows.” 

The astrologer took his master’s arm, almost as 
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Near the Throne 


if he would make to hold him back as he kept on 
in his enumeration : 

“ Those lips ” 

“ There would be passion in their kisses,” 
Murad said, the fire of his black eyes revealing 
what he took no pains to conceal and felt that his 
companion observed. 

“ Dearest,” Balzar whispered, still unconscious 
o.f any other presence but Nazira’s. 

Osman kept on adding more fuel to the fire that 
was consuming the shameless Saracen. 

“ Her smile.” 

“And sometimes,” the soldier of France al- 
lowed, “ a man likes to tell what is in his heart. 
You are all my world. Waking I think of you 
and sleeping I dream of you.” 

The two at the window heard this with a start 
back. Both were incensed at the sway the for- 
eigner had acquired over their countrywoman. But 
Murad’s was the anger of jealousy, which the cun- 
ning astrologer fanned by persisting very softly 
while he let his hand slip down Murad’s sleeve : 

“ Her form, so voluptuous ” 

Then they heard Marcel say : 

“You are always in my thoughts.” 

And Murad himself this time added : 

“That bosom.” 

“ The pillow of Balzar,” frowned Osman, notic- 
ing his master’s scowl. 


9 2 


Near the Throne 


“Darling!” sighed Nazira, her arms clasped 
tightly around her lover’s neck as she rested in his 
close embrace. 

“Think,” urged Osman, “what it would be 
worth to ” 

“ Oh ! ” answered Murad as they disappeared 
together from the window, “a night worth a 
world ! ” 

Forgetful of all else it had been to Marcel and 
Nazira as if their caresses and confessions had been 
looked upon by no other eyes and listened to by no 
other ears than each other’s. Nor did he cease 
from pouring out his soul to her : 

“You are so beautiful and pure and true, dear 
one. Four days more and you will be my bride.” 

“ O Marcel ! ” she responded in the very ecstasy 
of that passion that is most divine, “is it not 
lovely to love and lovely to be loved? ” 

“ Yes,” he replied — “ it changes earth to para- 
dise.” 

Then after a moment she said : 

“ I must go now. Father may want me.” 

And he kissed her again. 

“ Sometimes,” she went on, letting her hand 
remain motionless in his, but dropping her head, 
“ sometimes I have wondered how long a kiss may 
last. Everything that is sweet or beautiful seems 
to pass away so soon : the colour of a rose, the per- 
fume of a violet, the song of a nightingale — they 
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Near the Throne 


are pretty. You see, you smell, you hear —they 
are delightful — they are gone.” 

“ But,” he replied taking a flower from the lapel 
of his coat, “a kiss is not a joy of so brief life. 
It alights upon the lips like the drop of dew upon 
the blushing petal of this rose and slips silently in- 
to the heart. O Nazira, how long may a kiss live ? ” 

“ Mine ? A kiss from me ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ As long as memory lives, as long as the soul 
lives — forever.” 

He gave her the rose. Then looking into her 
eyes with all the earnestness and intensity of 
his nature he pressed his lips to hers in one long 
endearment of forgetful- 
ness and passion, kissing 
her again and again and 
saying : 

“ I love you — I love 
you — I love you ! ” 

But the drop of dew was 
a tear upon the petal. 

“An Egyptian’s lover,” 
Nazira said half interroga- 
tively, but in the sweet 
certainty that he belonged 
to her — body and soul. 

“For all eternity,” he 
vowed. 

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Near the Throne 


Resting her head on his breast and looking up 
at him she answered : 

“ My own — my very own ! ” 

A few moments passed. 

Then kissing the rose to him she went out the 
door into the street and left him standing watch- 
ing there alone. 



¥ 


CHAPTER III 


PAID IN HIS OWN WINE 

Recovering from the sweet intoxication of 
Nazira’s presence Balzar sat down by the table, 
remarking to himself : 

“ There are so many wounded in the hospital it 
gives me nearly all I can do.” 

Presently he took a wine glass and poured it full 
from the bottle his private secretary had filled with 
water. He held it to the light — tasted it. 
“Rather weak,” was his opinion as he threw the 
liquid away. “ Most likely it was ” 

At that instant the door opened. 

“ Taschereau ! ” the physician said, concluding 
his sentence and greetinghis amanuensis with the 
same word. 

“ Monsieur,” answered the genial tippler some- 
what thick of tongue. 

“Well?” 

“ Murad and Osman called shee you,” he said. 
“ I told them you were out.” 

“Out- of what?” asked the doctor very quizzi- 
cally. 

“Oh, I’m not drunk!” Plutarque protested, 
9 6 


Near the Throne 


trying very hard to stand perfectly straight but 
with varying degrees of success. Then studying 
his boots and finally putting one out a bit he ven- 
tured the decision : “ Thish my right foot.” 

Marcel could not but admit that he had guessed 
correctly. “ You’re all right,” he said with an 
approving slap on the shoulder which nearly 
proved serious. 

“ That’sh jusht my weaknesh,” acquiesced the 
honest revolutionist, looking hard at one foot and 
trying in vain to induce the other to go forward 
and at the same time withdrawing a flask from his 
pocket, “if I only had a little left.” 

“Have a drink?” said the Captain offering 
him the bottle. 

Monsieur Plutarque Taschereau looked at it in 
disgust. 

“ With me,” coaxed Marcel. 

“ I’ve sworn off,” averred he of the tricolour sash, 
endeavouring to brush the bottle aside, but only 
turning himself around on his heel instead. 

“ Since when ? ” inquired Captain Balzar pour- 
ing two glasses in proof of the sincerity of his 
hospitality and good-fellowship. “ Ha, ha, ha ! 
Sworn off ? You? Nonsense! Since when ? ” 

“Not a drop,” swore the temperate Taschereau, 
“has passed my lips shince ” 

“ Here ! ” interrupted Balzar giving him one 
of the glasses. “ Drink that ! ” 

7 97 


Near the Throne 


“ No ! ” the rubicund gentleman protested, 
though there was no record of his ever having 
refused before. “ No ! ” 

“What’s it to be?” the Captain asked, raising 
his own glass and compelling Plutarque to lift his 
by force of example and the courtesy due to a host. 

Taschereau made an effort to chime in and pro- 
pose a toast : 

“ To-to-to ” 

“ To Paris ! ” proposed the soldier. 

The glasses clicked. 

“To Parish!” replied the journalist, drinking 
with great effort, while Balzar smilingly emptied 
his share into the centre of a rather hollow seat 
of an antique chair. It seemed to be the most 
convenient place — and there was no time to look 
for anything. 

“ Again ! ” said Balzar laughingly filling the 
glasses. 

“ To-to ” 

“To the Latin Quarter!” 

Click ! 

Balzar poured his in the same place. 

“To the Latin Qua ” repeated Taschereau, 

taking his share with every expression of swal- 
lowing something exceedingly disagreeable to the 
taste. 

“Again!” shouted Balzar enjoying the joke 
and pouring out the third. 

98 


Near the Throne 


“ No ! ” came in hiccoughed protest. “ No 
more for me ! ” 

“To our old cafe — La Fille d’Or!” proposed 
the Captain. 

Taschereau could not refuse. 

Click! Click! 

Balzar dashed his in the same convenient place. 

“To-to-our old ca ” 

“ Fe ! ” the surgeon concluded for him. 

“ Cafe ! ” repeated Plutarque. “ La Fille ” 

Taschereau stopped short and hiccoughed. He 
could struggle no further. Then he forced the 
liquor down as though he were loading a gun. 

“ Bravo ! ” shouted Captain Balzar. 

“ Not a drop hash pashed ! ” reiterated Tascher- 
eau in the manner of a man taking a serious oath. 

‘ Not a drop of anything,” he stumbled on, sitting 
down in the chair of which the seat was running 
over, “ but washer! ” 

“But water!” echoed Marcel, holding up his 
glass as if his embarrassed companion had proposed 
a toast. 

Plutarque jumped up with even more alacrity 
than he had ever accepted a drink. 

“ Quite true ! ” agreed Balzar, rubbing it in. 
“ Quite true ! ” 

Feeling to learn the nature and extent of the 
damage done, Plutarque endeavoured to hasten from 
the surgery as quickly as his unsteady legs could 
99 


Near the Throne 


carry him, but he fell over that foot he was so 
sure of. Picking himself up he stumbled out 
muttering : 

“ Noshing but washer — washer.” 

Captain Balzar, tired with his labours in the 
hospital, for the wounded soldiers seemed to be 
greatly retarded in their convalescence by the 
climate of Egypt, lay down on a camp bed to rest 
a while. He was just beginning to doze when 
Madame Balzar entered. 

“ Marcel ! ” she said gently drawing aside the 
curtains and stopping in the doorway. “ Marcel ! ” 

He heard her. But there came over him a 
temptation to pretend not to be awake. He did 
not try to resist it. 

The mother came over quietly and watched him 
for a few seconds. He was breathing heavily. 

“Asleep,” she said stroking his brow; “My 
boy.” Then placing a screen around the stretcher 
so that he might be shielded from the window and 
any possible draughts, she kissed her son and tip- 
toed from the room. 

Marcel sat up and looked after her. “ Mother,” 
he said, “you are so loving.” Then he arose and 
went slowly and wearily up the stairway to his 
own room. 

Just as he disappeared from the landing there 
was a knock at the street door. No one answered 
it. There was no person present. The knock 

i oo 


Near the Throne 


was repeated more loudly. The door was pushed 
open from the outside, and Murad came in accom- 
panied by Osman. Taschereau wobbled in the 
other door at the same time, apparently having 
heard the summons and being on his way to find 
out what was wanted. 

“ We have called, ” said Murad to him, “ to see 
your master, Monsieur Balzar. Is he at home? ” 

“ I can’t find him,” replied Taschereau. 

“ Are you quite sure ? ” 

“ By the beard of the Prophet ! ” 

“ Where is he?” 

“ I think he is attending a patient.” 

“ A patient,” sneered Murad. “Hu! A woman.” 

“ No doubt,” added Osman, sitting down at the 
side of the room where the camp bed was with the 
screen around it. 

“Possibly,” admitted Taschereau, “physicians 
do attend women.” And he stumbled out the 
door, just missing a serious contact with his 
roseate nose. 

“And that woman is Nazira,” said Murad to 
Osman. 

“ Beyond a doubt,” the astrologer agreed. 

Walking across the room and seating himself 
the Pasha showed the elder Saracen a small en- 
velope, adding with sarcastic emphasis : 

“ Here is a note from Balzar saying he would be 
at home, if ” 


IOI 


Near the Throne 


“ If ! ” exclaimed Osman. 

“ Read it,” said Murad, handing the missive. 

Osman read the words aloud : 

“ If the business is official ! ” 

He tossed the paper across the table to his 
master. 

“Could you forge that signature?” asked 
Murad, holding the paper up and pointing to 
Balzar’s name written in bold heavy characters at 
the foot of the page. 

“ I’ll try.” 

“Then write.” 

Osman took up a pen and followed Murad as 
he dictated : 

“ Worda : Come to me now, to the surgery, as 
soon as you receive this note. I am alone — and 
we shall be happy in our love. 

“ Marcel.” 

“ Marcel,” repeated Osman as he added the brief 
flourish to the final letter, just as it was in the 
original. He passed the paper to Murad. 

“ Excellent ! ” pronounced the Pasha regarding 
the signature critically and comparing it carefully 
stroke by stroke with that in the note addressed 
and sent to himself. Then dusting and folding the 
paper, he passed it to Osman and, without paying 
any definite attention to the old man’s inquiring 
glance, went on with his instructions : “ Send this 
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Near the Throne 


at once to Hassan. Say you intercepted Balzar’s 
messenger.” 

The astrologer perceived immediately the plan 
of campaign, and as he tucked the forged missive 
beneath his cloak and patted the spot answered : 


“I’ll do it.” 



CHAPTER IV 


ONLY A PARROT 

“ But, Murad,” resumed Osman after putting 
the pen carefully away just where he had found it 
and shutting the ink-well. 

“ Well ? ” 

“What do you think of woman anyway? ” 

“ Oh ! What do I think of the angels ? ” was 
the laughing and equivocal response. 

“ He’s got it bad,” said the parrot very indis- 
tinctly — so much so that only an ear accustomed 
to the bird’s sallies would have been able to say 
whether this particular effort was a series of half- 
swallowed words such as a baby teething might 
attempt to utter or merely a succession of ornitho- 
logical gurglings. This was the usual result when 
the parrot was endeavouring to perfect itself in 
a new phrase even when it heard it often and 
essayed it a score of times. 

“ But there are differences in angels,” added 
Murad qualifying his last statement. 

“ So they say,” smiled Osman. 

“ You have noticed that ? ” 


104 


Near the Throne 


“Yes — when I visited Paris.” 

“ Eh ? ” said Murad forgetting for the moment 
Osman’s visit to the French Capital. 

“And I have noticed another thing.” 

“ Yes ? ” 

“ Many men seem to prefer the fallen angels.” 

“ Feu-u ! ” whistled the parrot. 

There was a knock at the street door. The 
Pasha opened it. 

“ Hassan,” said he suavely in greeting and 
making a salaam in which the Bey joined as the 
merchant entered the room. 

“ Murad,” answered the visitor equally respect- 
ful. 

“Coming!” called the late Plutarque from the 
next room. 

“ Osman,” added Hassan recognizing the as- 
trologer at the opposite side of the room and bow- 
ing again. 

Taschereau came in at the moment of the 
obeisance. 

“ Monsieur has not returned,” he announced, 
still muzzy, “but he’sh shpected every minute. 
Will you not be seated Messieurs, and wait for 
the physishian ? ” 

The Frenchman did not regard these three 
Egyptians as friends of his and was utterly indif- 
ferent even when sober as to what they did or 
thought, therefore without waiting for their answer 

105 


Near the Throne 


and tripping only once, he backed out as gracefully 
as his condition permitted. 

“ How brightly the sun is shining this morning,” 
remarked Hassan going to the window. 

“Allah is good,” said Murad with a devout 
uplifting of his brows. 

Then from the distance came a tremendous 
shout, that instantly drew the attention of all three : 

“ Napoleon! ” 

Hassan left the other two men standing near 
the desk and went quickly to the window. Osman 
frowned and seemed waiting for his master to 
declare himself. Murad stood erect with anger, 
his shoulders set firmly and his head tossed proudly 
back. They heard a band where the shout had 
come from playing with all the spirit that victory 
and bright anticipations beget : “ Le Chant du 
Depart,” then another farther off pouring out the 
strains of “ En Route Pour La Syrie.” Both were 
coming nearer. In a moment Hassan’s heart was 
filled with shame and his mind with resolution : 
he saw the approaching battalions, but they were 
the soldiers of France — in his city and in his 
Egypt. 

“ This should not be,” said Osman glancing 
around at the passing regiment of infantry whose 
bayonets they could just see going by the window 
in waves of conquest as the men marched to beat 
of drums coming and vanishing in the opposite 
106 


Near the Throne 


direction. Now and then an officer on horseback 
would ride past. Then came the crunching and 
rolling sounds of the gun carriages as the artillery 
dragged by, the splendid black Arabians pressed 
into its service prancing as though in rebellion 
and longing once more to champ the bits of Murad 
and his matchless Mamelukes. 

“Should not be?” repeated the Pasha regard- 
ing Osman with astonishment. “ Wait.” The 
man had the air of magnetism and convincement. 
“ And that,” the Moslem went on pointing off 
toward the East, “ should be torn down — that cross 
glittering in the sunlight. Our scimitars must 
uplift the crescent.” 

“There is,” added Osman with a steady gaze 
full of meaning, “ one man who can do it — one 
only. ” 

“ Osman, you are right,” was the reply. “In 
time to come it must be said : Murad reigned over 
Egypt, sole sovereign of the land of Isis. ” 

“ It shall be said,” answered the old astrologer. 

“You are indeed my friend,” responded the 
conspirator, speaking low that Hassan might not 
hear. 

“The crown waits for Murad.” 

“Up to the present,” agreed the young Pasha, 
“ I have succeeded in climbing near the throne. 
But now, this Balzar would push me back. He is 

here as an agent of Bonaparte ” 

107 


Near the Throne 


But the sentence was interrupted with a swell- 
ing shout from the street : 

"Hurrah! Hurrah!” 

They paid no attention to it beyond a gesture 
of impatience. 

“Well,” resumed Osman, “the power of your 
astrologer is not gone. Can I not prepare some 
fragrant fruits — similar to those you sent that fel- 
low, I forget his name, three hours before his 
death?” 

“ But,” replied the far-seeing and cautious 
Murad, “ Balzar is a physician. He might ex- 
amine the fruits. And if he found the poison ” 

“That would never do,” acquiesced the elder 
man perceiving that his master wished something 
either bolder or cleverer. “ Some other means 
must be devised.” 

Murad quickly thought of his plan. 

The Bey glanced qver his shoulder at Hassan. 

“I’ll strike Balzar through his mother,” the 
young Mahometan resolved. 

Osman at once recognized the desirability and 
possibilities of this course, but wanting Murad to 
be more precise he asked : 

“ How?” 

“ Imprison her.” 

“ Then?” 

“ Then have some one tell him,” the Pasha pro- 
ceeded. 


108 


Near the Throne 


“That will keep him in Cairo.” 

“ In case we should need him.” 

“ Or his head,” suggested the astrologer. 

“ What prison ? Let me think. In the secret 
dungeons beneath my Palace.” 

“ Our own Bastille. ” 

Murad considered a second or two, then said : 

“ Cell thirty one.” 

“ Cell thirty one,” repeated the astrologer. 

“ Polly ! ” exclaimed the parrot, who had been 
observing them with a wise silence. Both the 
conspirators glanced around in alarm. 

“ Only a parrot ! ” both laughed together when 
they saw the bird. 

“ Polly sell ! ” 

“ Hush,” said Murad in caution, noticing 
Hassan coming down from the window. 

“Egypt is the sufferer,” remarked Osman, im- 
mediately adapting himself to the situation and 
apparently continuing a conversation intended for 
Hassan’s ears. 

But it was not so suitable for those of Balzar, 
who at that very moment opened the door of his 
room and appeared at the top of the stairway, 
looking a trifle sleepy and smoking a cigarette. 
However, the trio in his surgery interested as well 
as surprised him, so he flicked the ashes away, 
and leaning over 'the balustrade lazily watched the 
Copt and the two Mahometans. 

109 


CHAPTER V 


THE TRAIL OF THE SLANDERER 

“ We were just speaking of Napoleon,” con- 
tinued Murad as Hassan walked between them. 

“ Pretty Poll,” interrupted the parrot in mock- 
ery of the diplomatic falsehood that fell so easily 
from the lips of the Pasha. 

Then came a shout from the crowded street to 
accentuate the aggravation of the Egyptians : 

“Vive la France! ” 

“Indeed,” said Hassan, taking no pains to con- 
ceal his displeasure. 

“Yes,” replied Murad, “we must be at the 
gates as the General ” 

“The oppressor,” put in Osman, observing the 
cumulative effect of the insults to the patriotism 
of the merchant. 

“ And the army depart,” concluded Murad. 

“ Why so ? ” asked the merchant. 

“To bid him farewell.” 

“ But little time remains,” suggested Osman. 

“Feu!” whistled the parrot becoming wide 
awake at the same time as its medical owner. 


i io 


Near the Throne 


Murad went on warming to his subject : 

“ Bonaparte pretends to have become a servant 
of Mahomet.” 

“To catch the rabble,” added Osman with a 
shrug of impatience and disgust. Some men al- 
ways feel both impatience and disgust when other 
men adopt their own methods. 

“Already,” said Murad, “the man of the heavy 
artillery is called the Lion of the Desert.” 

“And the King of Fire,” added Hassan. 

“Feu-u-u!” whistled the parrot as if it under- 
stood and was more astonished than before. 

“A transparent scheme,” said Murad. 

“The sun shines through it,” broke in Hassan. 

This was what the other two had been working 
for: to arouse the resentment of the merchant 
against the Corsican and then, by this somewhat 
circuitous but sure way, against the surgeon in the 
adventurer’s army. 

“Yes,” acquiesced Murad willingly and with a 
glance of indication, “but leaves a shadow.” 

Osman did not wish any doubt to exist in 
Hassan’s mind as to what or who this shadow 
might be, so he came out with the blunt statement : 

“ Balzar.” 

“How droll!” that gentleman remarked to 
himself, puffing his cigarette leisurely and send- 
ing a cloud of smoke curling to the ceiling. 

The parrot either had a remarkable perceptive 
hi 


Near the Throne 


faculty or else was rehearsing its entire repertoire, 
though it jumped at a bound from Touchstone’s 
retort courteous to the same philosopher’s fifth 
degree and launched into the countercheck quar- 
relsome, shouting: 

“ You’re a liar ! ” 

This cheerful piping up was to the embarrass- 
ment of at least two of the men on the floor and 
to the intense amusement of the physician at the 
top of the landing. 

Murad pretended not to notice the parrot, going 
on with the vilification : 

“ A man who, like his master, poses as the 
friend of the people of Egypt.” 

Balzar smiled with easy nonchalance at this and 
leaned forward a little, contenting himself with 
sending a few rings of smoke circling upward and 
remarking beneath his breath : 

“What a villain I am.” 

A shout came again from further down the street : 

“Hurrah! Hurrah!” 

Murad spoke through it : 

“ But tear off the mask ” 

“ And you find the spy, ” finished Osman. 

“ I never thought I was quite so black as that,” 
said Balzar almost audibly, wishing that he could 
write down this vivid description of himself for he 
thought it would make a graphic and entertaining 
pen picture. 


I I 2 


Near the Throne 


“The traitor!” added Murad, with his brows 
contracted and his eyes flashing with anger. 

“ You’re a damn liar! ” screeched the parrot. 

“We never see ourselves as others see us,” 
quoted Marcel, disappearing into his room as 
Murad turned and scowled at the innocent looking 
bird perched on one leg and looking more than 
green. 

The parrot answered with a gaze as blank and 
expressionless as that of the Sphinx. 

“We need to guard him well,” the Pasha con- 
tinued as Balzar reappeared. 

“And very cautiously,” said Hassan. “He is 
fearless.” 

“And clever,” added Osman. 

“He goes about as a harmless physician,” said 
Murad. “ But once a soldier, always a sol- 
dier.” 

Tumultuous shouts from the streets broke in 
again : 

“ France ! And Napoleon ! ” 

Hassan took a step toward the window and 
listened. 

Murad took this opportunity for a private word 
to Osman : 

“The note should do the business. But I’ll 
supply him with another motive.” 

The astrologer nodded comprehension as the 
merchant came to them. 

8 113 


Near the Throne 


“Hassan,” said Murad to him, “you have heard 
the proverb : one good turn deserves another? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“By chance,” the conspirator continued, watch- 
ing for the effect of the statement, “ I have in my 
possession a letter addressed to Admiral Nelson.” 

“I have known that for some time,” the mer- 
chant answered, with polite disdain. 

“ It bears your signature,” the Pasha went on 
with sudden directness, then with polished subt- 
lety : “ I have thought you might like to have 
it in your possession. It’s a dangerous scrap of 
paper, you know.” 

“ What do you want me to do ? ” the man asked, 
anxious to learn without useless delay the purpose 
of this manoeuvre. 

Murad responded with equal frankness : 

“ End the betrothal of Nazira to Balzar. ” 

This was a plain offer but not easy of imme- 
diate acceptance or declination. Besides, for so 
decisive a stroke, was there a sufficient motive ? 

The Pasha, noticing Hassan’ s hesitation and 
divining the cause of it, added : 

“The hour I learn that you have done so, I’ll 
send you this letter.” 

“ I could wish,” said the perplexed father, blam- 
ing the general circumstances for his particular 
predicament, “that these French had never set 
foot in our land.” 


Near the Throne 


This was the very declaration Murad wanted. 
It gave him the opportunity to say with much 
significance of tone and manner : 

“ Ah, Hassan, you have good reasons for such 
a wish.” 

“They have injured my trade,” complained the 



merchant, walking toward the door leading to the 
street from which came another and more vocifer- 
ous shout : 

“Hurrah! Hurrah!” 

“More than that,” said the slanderer, with 
malignant insinuation. 

“ What do yoti mean ? ” Hassan questioned. 

“ One of them has ruined your daughter. ” 


Near the Throne 


“ What ! ” 

“ Worda. ” 

“ You are sure of that? ” 

“ Positive.” 

“If I knew the man I’d strangle him.” 

“ You do know him. ” 

“Who?” 

“ A physician.” 

“His name?” 

“ It’s true.” 

Hassan was now aroused — he was prepared to 
go any length. 

This was the Pasha’s desire. 

“P"our months ago,” the Copt answered with 
threatening emphasis, “ your Osman put suspicions 
in my mind.” 

“That were well founded,” replied Murad ex- 
ultant over his success. 

“But the time for that has gone,” Hassan re- 
torted. Then coming up close to the Pasha, so 
that their shoulders touched and their eyes met 
in a searching defiant gaze, he demanded: “No 
hints — be plain ! ” 

And the traducer, leaning on the balustrade, 
coldly responded : 

“ Balzar.” 

Shaking his head slowly, one hand clutching 
the other nervously, Hassan repeated the name 
mechanically : “ Balzar — Marcel Balzar. ” 

1 16 


Near the Throne 


Instantly the surgeon on the staircase made a 
start down the steps, but restrained himself, say- 
ing between his teeth : 

“ I could kill him now.” 

To think that it was the man in whom he had 
placed such absolute confidence and to whom he 
had given Nazira in betroth- 
al — suspicions that had been 
gnawing his mind for weeks 
had been confirmed — this 
was a blow more than Has- 
san had expected. The dis- 
tracted father walked with 
unsteady step to the door, 
muttering incoherently : 

“ Balzar ! I trusted him. 

Balzar.” 

Without a look behind 
he went out into the street, 
still muttering. As the 
door closed Murad laughed — 
a cynical victorious 
laugh that had the bitterness of the demon in its 
ring. 

The surgeon’s sabre grazed the balustrade. 
The sound attracted the Saracen. Turning 
quickly he saw Captain Balzar standing on the 
landing at the top looking down upon him with 
contemptuous anger. Murad rushed up. Balzar 
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Near the Throne 


coolly folded his arms — and before him, step by 
step the Pasha backed down the stairs. 

“ You are right, Murad,” said Le Beau Sabreur, 
pointing to the window where a troop of cav- 
alry was flashing by, “once a soldier, always a 
soldier — of Napoleon ! ” 

At that moment Bonaparte galloped past to 
tremendous shouts : 

“ Long live Napoleon ! Napoleon ! ” 

Without waiting for the acclamations to die 
away or the music in the distance to vanish Bal- 
zar, turning the key in the door and observing 
that the two men with him noted the click of the 
lock, continued : 

“ Listen. When I was a boy I lay down one 
day to rest myself beneath a tree in an open field. 
I fell asleep. And while I slept filthy slimy 
things came crawling over me. I felt their foul 
touch — clammy, defiling. I wakened — saw them 

binding me with their webs, strings spun from 
corruption. I watched them and laughed. They 
kept on, crossing and recrossing, making me more 
secure in their meshes, binding me tighter and 
tighter in their unclean network till they thought 
they had me in their power. Then I arose and 
shook myself.” And Balzar followed Murad up as 
a lion might follow a wolf, muscle to muscle, eye to 
eye, observing every twitch of the Pasha’s features. 
“ They shrank from me,” he went on, “ I trampled 
1 18 


Near the Throne 


upon them. They squirmed. I crushed them 
beneath my heel.” Then he paused a moment, 
and knitting his brows into a threatening frown, 
asked with intense irony : “ Do you read the riddle ? 
I lay there asleep when you came. You wakened 
me. I heard you speak of poison and plots. I 
laughed at you. I listened while you besmeared 
my good name — saw you bind me in your web of 
lies. But now — I’m going to shake myself! ” 

Murad who had backed almost up to the door 
tried to interrupt, saying : 

“ Balzar ” 

The French soldier would not permit it. 
Drawing his sword and advancing he said : 

“ You crawling viper ” 

Murad’s hand was slipping slowly toward his 
belt. 

Marcel stopped an instant. A thought occurred 
to him. He put his blade back in its scabbard. 

'‘Sitting here yesterday,” he resumed, “some 
one shot at me. It was you ! ” 

“ Monsieur ! ” 

“A poniard in that desk stopped the bullet.” 

“ And you think — — ” 

Opening the drawer and taking up the flattened 
piece of lead, Balzar added : 

“ Here it is ! But I’ll send it back to you ! ” 

“ Captain ” 

“ Soon you’ll find it,” he continued. 

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“ Find what? ” said Murad. 

“ What you’re looking for ! ” 

“Where?” the Pasha asked excitedly as he 
grasped his pistol. 

Quickly taking the fourth one of the arms lean- 
ing against the three in the stack and putting the 
muzzle right up to the eyes of the Egyptian, Balzar 
replied : 

“ Down the barrel of a musket ! ” 

Murad’s hands dropped to his side. 

“ Go,” Marcel went on, opening the door — 
“your time has not come. But I’ll kill you 
yet — in my hour of triumph ! ” 

Without a word Murad and Osman went out — 
to devise some speedy plot to rid themselves of 
this outspoken foe, the Corsican’s musketeer, Le 
Beau Sabreur. 



CHAPTER VI 


THE SUMMER AND A ROSE 

Balzar closed the door and locked it again, 
Placing the musket back in the stack he heard the 
swift clattering of hoofs on the rough pavement 
and knew that the two Egyptians were galloping 
to bid Bonaparte a false farewell. The noises 
that accompanied the departing army were very 
faint now. He looked around the room. The 
surgery was as tranquil and clean as ever. There 
had been throwing of pitch and quarrelling, but 
not a powder was spilled and not a phial was broken. 
The blasting of a reputation leaves no debris be- 
hind. The blood that is drawn from the scratch 
of a pin lurking in the way of the purest kiss will 
soil more whiteness than the scattering of the 
blackest calumny. The bacillus of a lie has never 
been discovered — and the breathing of the vilest 
slander does not pollute the air any more than the 
whispering of the devoutest prayer. 

Marcel stood thinking a moment. The atmos- 
phere was as befor-e. But Hassan was the father 
of his betrothed. He had heard that defamation. 
Would he give it credence ? Surely not — without 


Near the Throne 


further evidence. And none existed. At any 
rate nothing could be done at present. Worry 
was useless. He must wait — and try with a laugh 
to induce a light heart. 

“ Feu-u-u-u ! ” 

It was a prolonged whistle from the parrot. 

Marcel went over to the cage. 

“We fixed him,” said the bird, repeating a 
phrase it had picked up from some one and prac- 
tised daily — and this time the remark was cer- 
tainly apropos. 

“ Polly, you’re a bird,” answered Balzar, with as 
much appropriateness as truth. 

“ You’re another,” replied the parrot. 

“What?” the Captain exclaimed, as if about 
to strike the bars playfully. 

“You’re all right,” explained the green imp 
rattling off another sentence from its memory. 

“ Oh ! I see — that’s better.” 

“ Polly ! ” 

“ Have a cracker. ” 

“Cell,” responded the parrot indistinctly, as if 
trying to learn something new. 

“What?” 

“ Cell,” it said again, a little more plainly. 
“ Cell— cell ! ” 

“ Sell? Oh, yes, sell,” repeated its owner, puz- 
zled and amused with this vague and enigmatic 
utterance of the feathered philosopher. 


Near the Throne 


“Cell,” it said again, with some improvement 
in enunciation but with the same ambiguity in 
meaning. 

“ I have nothing to sell, Polly, unless it’s you.” 

“ Cell thirty,” went on the parrot with persist- 
ence, one word very much run into the other. 

“ Sell thirty what ? ” said the physician, much 
confused by this equivocal addition. “ If I had 
thirty parrots I think I’d sell them.” 

“Cell thirty,” continued Polly, evidently deter- 
mined to learn its new lesson and go on with the 
riddle. “ Cell thirty one.” 

The bird seemed relieved and relapsed into the 
serene silence of alterations in its toilet : one wise 
eye on its deft beak, the other on its perplexed 
master, apparently wondering if the latter under- 
stood the oracular phrase. 

“ Sell thirty one ? What does that mean, Polly ? ” 

There, was a knock at the door. This inter- 
ruption stopped further thought. 

It sounded a second time — a stealthy knock. 

To answer it the physician walked across the 
surgery and stood a moment with his fingers on 
the key. 

Very gently the knock was repeated. 

Balzar turned the lock, the click was very audi- 
ble, so quiet was the room. The door was opened 
from the outside — and a girl looked timidly in. 

“ You Worda? ” said the Captain, surprised and 
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taking her by the arm and drawing her into the 
room. “ I am glad you have come.” 

This reassured her, the tone of his voice and 
the grasp of his hand. 

“ Are you, Marcel ? ” she answered, evidently 
not expecting such a welcome. “ It is so strange.” 

“Why so?” 

“ Nobody seems glad to see me — except my 
little pigeon here. ” 

Its head could just be seen nestling in her 
bosom. 

“ I shall always be,” he responded. 

“You know why I do not live at home? ” she 
asked. 

“ No person ever told me,” he replied, in avoid- 
ance of a direct answer. 

“ Marcel,” she said slowly, her voice trembling 
and her head sinking in shame, “ you are a phy- 
sician. You read human secrets — read mine.” 

“ We are all weak and liable to err,” he said, 
with manly sympathy in every word. “ Some 
handsome fellow, I suppose — and you — a woman. 
Well, you yielded ? ” 

“ At a banquet one evening — a cup of sher- 
bet — it was drugged — I fell.” 

“ O Worda ! ” 

“ But I was to blame. I was even glad of the 
sherbet. My mind w£s drugged, too. I loved 
him. He swore he would make me his wife.” 

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“ But now ? ” 

“ Now, Marcel, I despise him, and I am afraid 
of him. ” 

The confession came as a blow to Balzar. His 
face lit up with anger. This frail girl had been 
suffering for another’s evil-doing; that very mo- 
ment a vow was registered by the young swords- 
man that he would remember the good and not 
forget the bad. 

Worda raised her eyes to Marcel’s. 

“ No,” he decided, with infinite pity and tender- 
ness, “you wrong yourself. You did not fall. 
Like many another girl you were thrust down.” 

“O Marcel,” she said, “once I was so differ- 
ent — my soul was white. But now, the stains, 
the blots upon my heart. Lost to all the joys of 
innocence, I am an outcast — despised ” 

“Not by me,” he interrupted. “And not by 
Nazira. You are her sister — and mine.” 

“Thank you for that word.” she said, meeting 
his glance. “ But I am by my betrayer. ” 

“ Who?” 

“ Murad.” 

Balzar was filled with astonishment. Then in- 
dignation took possession of him. 

“ It was the Pasha,” she said. 

“Murad? ” he repeated. 

“He is so wicked,” she continued — “he is the 
kind of man that some women love.” 

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“ But not you, Worda ; not you any more ? ” 

“ No. He cast me off. Then I realized the 
truth — the cruel truth, Marcel : I was his play- 
thing for an hour. Ah, why was I so blind? To 
think of it makes me mad. But some day for all 
his treachery he will pay the penalty ! ” 

“Yes.” 

“But you won’t kill him, Marcel? You’re 
such a swordsman.” 

Balzar’s answer was slow and firm : 

“ He shall pay the penalty.” 

“ But Murad could not have succeeded alone.” 

“ Who helped him ? Who drugged the sherbet ?” 

“ Osman. ” 

“Then,” Marcel replied, “ Osman shall die with 
this,” tapping the poniard concealed in the desk. 

Worda made a gesture of deprecation. 

“It would be but justice,” Captain Balzar con- 
tinued. And his heart meant death — for it was 
the heart of a soldier of France. “ Count on me, 
I shall fulfil that trust — the hour my duty is over 
to Napoleon.” 

“ I do not wonder that you are Nazira’s knight,” 
she answered. 

“ But for yourself, Worda,” he resumed, coming 
quickly to the immediate and practical, “ you 
should return to your home. You do not know 
how Ali and Halima love you, and Nazira is so 
fond of you.” 


126 


Near the Throne 


“ But my father ” 

“ He will forgive.” 

“ I fear not. I begged him to let me remain — 
to give me another chance.” 

“ Yes ? ” 

“ But he refused.” 

“ Refused you that, Worda? ” 

“ And said that I might return when he sent 
for me — not till then, that if I came unbidden, he 
would assert his rights as a father — he is hard, 
strict, severe, knows no mercy — his heart is marble. 
But I should not say these things, even to you — 
for he is my father.” 

“ I shall never repeat them.” 

“Not even to Nazira? ” she questioned. 

“ No.” 

“ And I do not wish her nor any one else to 
know that you tried to persuade me to return 
home.” 

“ Worda, not a syllable of this interview will 
ever be mentioned by me.” 

“ Not even to Nazira?” 

“ Not even to her. ” 

“Never?” 

“Never,” he swore. “ You have my promise.” 

“That’s all I want,” she responded with abso- 
lute confidence. 

“ Agreed. But think well — your own home is 
where you should go now,” he said, with a glance 
127 


Near the Throne 


and an inclination of the x head in its direction, 
which was diagonally across the way. 

“ I have gone too far astray/’ 

“ Nazira will plead for you. ” 

“ I have no desire to go.” 

“ Why not?” 

“ Because I should always be conscious of the 
mark of sin — and feel the scarlet flush of fallen 
womanhood. No, no — I cannot go. People 
would hear of my shame.” 

“ No, they would not,” he replied, with convic- 
tion. “ It is a secret. ” 

“ They would call me a courtezan. I could not 
endure their glances— their whispers.” 

Hassan and Nazira appeared at the door. They 
were unseen and stopped still in utter dismay. 

The music of lutes came floating across from 
their own house, probably it was Lucine and some 
of the slaves playing an Egyptian melody that 
would remind a modern European of the soft plain- 
tive strains of “ The Last Rose of Summer ” — just 
as Balzar with all the persuasion at his command, 
continued : 

“ Come, Worda, do — no one will ever know.” 

“ He lies ! ” said Hassan with terrible earnest- 
ness, coming forward and leading Nazira who fol- 
lowed reluctantly — for it was to the darkening of 
her soul that she was going. 

“My father!” exclaimed Worda, fearful of his 
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Near the Throne 



the only sign of life the tears in her wide brown 
eyes. 

“Now my daughter,” asked the father address- 
ing her, “ are you convinced ? ” 

“ No,” she said — and one of the tears dropped 
down into the rose that was still in her gown. 
“ Perhaps he can explain. Give him a chance.” 

“ He has it now,” the Copt replied. Then turn- 
ing to Balzar he asked : “ Will you answer me ? ” 

9 I2 9 


wrath and hastening quickly past him through the 
door into the street. If he had only known the 
tragedy for which these three words often stand— 
into the street ! 

Nazira stood motionless as a statue of bronze, 


Near the Throne 


“Not a word,” was the reply. 

“ Speak, Marcel,” begged Nazira. 

“ Silence suits guilt,” said Hassan with bitter- 
ness. 

“ Clear yourself,” she pleaded. 

“ Impossible,” retorted her father, resenting the 
conscious .power of the man who met his rage 
with calmness. 

“ I can not believe what they say of you,” cried 
Nazira. 

“ Was this not proof enough ? ” demanded 
Hassan. 

But to the inference of the question and the 
gesture, Balzar said only with firmness : 

“ You make no charge. How can I reply? ” 

“ Was there no evidence in what I saw ? ” 

“ None.” 

“ Did I not come in just as you were ” 

“ No ! ” Balzar would not permit him to finish 
that sentence. “ By my faith in ” 

“Oh, spare your faith.” 

“There was nothing that should not be.” 

“Because I prevented it,” said the father, be- 
coming more irate. “But this note to Worda,” 
producing it, “asking her to meet you here today. 
It was intercepted.” And he handed the paper 
to Nazira that she might see the proof of her 
lover’s despicable falseness. 

Nazira’s hands trembled as she read the abom- 
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Near the Throne 


inable message and she handed it quickly back to 
her father as if it were an unclean thing. 

Hassan gave it to Balzar. 

“ It’s a forgery ! ” the Captain exclaimed as 
soon as he had glanced at it — and then he tore it 
up. 

“ How you lie ! When you know it was you 
who ” 

“ Of what do you accuse me ? ” 

“ You ruined Worda.” 

/‘Stop!” 

“ How dare you deny it? ” 

“ Stop, I say ! ” 

“ You know you did ! ” 

“ Oh, you — unsay that — or,” advancing and 
drawing his sabre on the swift impulse of his 
heated blood, “I’ll — damn you, I’ll ” 

Nazira clung closely to her father. 

This caused but a moment’s delay, but in it a 
wave of self-control swept over Balzar. 

“ Ah ! ” he said, throwing his sword on the 
floor, “ I forgot your age and the presence of a 
woman. ” 

“ Monsieur Balzar,” said Hassan with cold de- 
liberation, “ my daughter' Nazira was betrothed 
to you. She is no more. From this hour I for- 
bid her to see or speak to you.” 

The two Copts started for the door. 

“ O father — I ” sobbed Nazira, leaning on 

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Near the Throne 


her father’s arm and taking the rose from its fasten- 
ing in her gown and the ring from its place on her 
finger and putting it among the petals — while the 
music from the lutes still came floating in. 

“ Come, my daughter ! ” commanded Hassam 



Recovering slightly her self-possession and 
brushing away her tears she said, dropping the 
flower : 

“ The summer of my life has ended — the winter 
has begun.” 

Marcel answered, and his soul was in his voice: 

“Good-bye, Nazira, good-bye.” 

Hassan led his daughter out. 

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“ Good-bye,” repeated Marcel going after her 
to the door. 

But the Egyptian girl did not look behind. 

Stooping low, Marcel knelt down and picked up 
the flower. The sword was lying at his feet. 
Picking it up too, he sank into a chair near by, 
grasped the weapon more tightly — and a vow was 
on his tongue and in his will. The music ceased. 
In bitter realization that his love had gone from 
him to the home of her relentless father, Balzar 
said again : 

“ Good-bye — sweetheart.” 

And perhaps he prayed that the kiss his lips hid 
among the petals of the rose might find its way to 
the heart of Nazira. 



SECOND INTERLOGUE 


THREE WEEKS HAVE ELAPSED 
To die and part 

Is a less evil — but to part and live, 

There, there’s the torment. 

— Lord Lansdowne. 

Some men there are — and women too — who 
exist for eighty years and never live for one. 
They are the dullards of the earth who merely 
vegetate. But others have hearts that live months 
in minutes and breathe a soul into every passion. 
They are the conquerors who keep aflame the love 
that makes the world go round. And the revolu- 
tions it describes, forced along by this fierce heat, 
whirling like a great wheel of fortune ! Many 
clinging to it and hoping to be lifted to happiness 
are dashed to an abyss of misery. A few who are 
always ready and upon whom the capricious god- 
dess looks with smiling favour are borne on serenely 
and raised to their own elysium. But even para- 
dise has its gates ; and the dwellers there are not 
prisoners : at any time they may pass out of their 
own free will, or at the instigation of some fiend 
may be hurled in disgrace away from the music 
i34 


Near the Throne 


and light into outer darkness. Three weeks is a 
short period in all realms except that ruled by the 
sprite with a bow and arrow, for to a lover, espe- 
cially to one like Marcel Balzar with a nature so 
deep and so intense, who is in love with such a 
superb and fascinating an example of womanhood 
as Nazira, it seems an aeon, and like paying for the 
moments of heaven in centuries of hell. 

















































































Book XTbree 

TO GAIN AN EMPIRE 


































































N 






CHAPTER I 


THE BASTILLE OF EGYPT 

A paved terrace on the western bank of the 
Nile in front of the Palace of Saladin — now owned 
by Murad. 

Along the edge of the river, whose waters flowed 
several feet below, a massive stone embankment 
running not quite breast high. 

In the parapet through a movable slab that 
swung heavily on an iron pivot, its existence 
known only to the sentries beside the astrologer 
and the Pasha, a passage leading to the secret 
dungeons — the Bastille of Egypt. 

A wide flight of white marble steps, over which 
had passed many a prince never to return, ascend- 
ing to the imposing entrance of the Palace, re- 
nowned as well for its machinations as for that 
vast hall in which were treasured so many relics 
of the pristine glory of the land of Isis. 

The magnificent portico supported by columns 
of rose granite once in the ancient temples of 
Memphis and carved with strange symbols of the 
Pharaohs. 

Osman was coming down the steps. He reached 
i39 


Near the Throne 

the last but two, and paused a moment in admira- 
tion of the violet beauty of the twilight and the 
splendour of the eastern sky. 

“My mother used to say,” he mused, “that 
when so many myriad stars shine so brightly they 
portend some tragedy. ” 

A noise a short dis- 
tance down the embank- 
ment attracted his atten- 
tion. 

He stopped to listen. 
It was the rattle of chains. 
A sinister smile that was 
half prophetic came over 
the old man’s features as 
coming down another step 
he remarked : “ The old 

saying may prove true 
tonight. ” 

And the chains rattled 
again. 

The sentence had scarcely dropped from his lips 
when Sebah and Fuad, the two most trusted of 
Murad’s former Mamelukes, appeared with a wo- 
man, whose wrists were securely fastened in irons 
unnecessarily heavy, and whom they were roughly 
dragging, unmindful of her struggles or her 
cries. 

“ Have mercy! ” she begged of them. 

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Near the Throne 


On going nearer, Osman noticed that the pris- 
oner was Madame Henri Balzar, the mother of 
Marcel. The two minions had succeeded in their 
mission. But he did not observe a lithe figure 
slinking in the shadows close to the stone wall 
and watching all that was happening — the figure 
of Worda. She could see only indistinctly, but 
this was as near as she could safely venture. 

“I have done no wrong,” the wretched lady 
cried. “ Pity me ! ” 

“ Come on ! ” said Sebah, holding the chain and 
giving her a pull forward with his brutal hands. 
“ Come on ! ” 

Her appealing to them was like throwing roses 
to monkeys, for the cruelty of a Turk is to be pre 
ferred to the clemency of an Arab. 

“ To the secret prison ! ” directed Osman, 
touching the spring and pushing the slab around 
on its rusty pivot. 

Sebah went down first, leading Madame Balzar, 
followed by Fuad and Osman. The astrologer 
shut the slab after them, saying as he did so : 

“The stars made no mistake to-night.” 

From the inside he shook it to see that the 
spring had caught. 

The rattle made the figure in the shadows start 
back a step, but kept her eyes riveted on the stone 
that swung. It seemed that one of the three was 
about to return. She waited a moment. But evi- 
141 


Near the Throne 


dently it was merely to make certain that the fast- 
ening was secure. 

Worda ran quickly to the place of the opening 
in the parapet. It would be so easy to forget 
which stone it was : and one might search for a 
long time without making any discovery, so per- 
fect was the joining in the masonry. 

“A French woman,” she said beneath her 
breath. “ Marcel must know of this. The secret 
prison. How shall I tell him which slab? ” 

She was about to mark it, but reflected that 
Murad or one of his sentries might see it in the 
mean time, immediately make a surmise and an 
erasure — then wait for the person who dared to 
know their secret. And Worda was well aware that 
this would inevitably lead to the death of the 
wrong man. Therefore she began to count the 
blocks in the wall to the right of the opening : 
“ One, two, three, four, five — the fifth slab — 
counting from — I must mark it.” She looked 
cautiously about to see that no one was watching, 
then tried her ring. It only made an impercepti- 
ble scratch. “No use,” she concluded, without 
wasting more time. “The eyebrow pencil Tin- 
ette bought from the pedlar,” she bethought her- 
self, taking it from her pocket and trying it. 
“Too black,” she decided, smudging the mark 
over the stone with the palm of her hand. 

A footstep sounded. 


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“The henna,” said Worda without losing an- 
other second, and making a yellow cross from her 
finger tip on the stone. The eastern custom of 
staining the nails is not altogether devoid of prac- 
tical uses in emergencies. Slinking into the 
shadow again and keeping close to the wall, the 
girl disappeared just as the spring of the slab 
clicked and Osman came up from the passage 
with Sebah and Fuad close behind him. 

“ Be careful of the keys,” the old man warned 
them. 

They saluted in answer and walked away be- 
tween the wall of the river and the steps of the 
Palace. 

“A great stroke of policy,” mused Osman, ob- 
serving a small crowd of people coming from the 
direction opposite to that the two soldiers had 
taken — “a feast for the populace.” 

The old astrologer laughed quietly and waited. 

But Murad’s was not the only plot afoot that 
night in front of the Palace of Saladin. 


CHAPTER II 


THE BEGGAR AND THE KEYS 

As the people came nearer and the Bey saw 
who they were, he stood aside to watch them pass 
and to listen to their conversation, that he might 
observe if there were any straws in it indicating 
the direction of the wind. They were a number 
of guests coming to the banquet upon which 
Murad counted so heavily for the increase of his 
popularity. 

Mademoiselle Fleury was walking between 
Monsieur Taschereau and Monsieur Carmier. 

Plutarque said to her : 

“ There is a rumour ” 

“I know,” she broke in, laughing vivaciously, 
and looking archly from one to the other ; “ that 
I’m going to the bad.” 

“ P-p-precisely.” 

“ I started it myself.” 

Both gentlemen looked at her in surprise. 

“ I want to be adored,” she added in explana- 
tion and went ahead a little to join some friends 
who were already on the steps. 

144 


Near the Throne 


“Now,” said the faultless youth adjusting his 
monocle and staring after her, “th-there’s some- 
thing that ought to be 1-1-looked after.” 

Mademoiselle Tinette glanced back over her 
shoulder as if she knew it, then entered the Palace. 

“ I am going to have a good time at this feast 
tonight,” remarked Monsieur Plutarque Tascher- 
eau in a chummy and confidential manner. 

“ Your w-w-wife coming ? ” Carmier asked. 

The man of many trades looked at him a 
moment, wondering if the Gascon were really to 
blame or his parents. Then with the air of a man 
who clinches an argument, he said : 

“Didn’t I tell you that I expect to have a good 
time ? ” 

“I say, Taschereau, are you r-really married? ” 

“ Married ? Me married !” 

This exclamation came with such a patronizing 
gesture that the blond Alphonse was in doubt 
whether his friend meant to say that of course he 
was, or that the idea was too absurd. 

But to relieve the stutterer’s uncertainty Plu- 
tarque added : 

“ I take a bird’s eye view of matrimony. ” 

Monsieur Carmier was not much enlightened by 
this confession, therefore he inquired: “What’s 
that ? ” 

“ Look down on it,” was the prompt reply. 
“ Married ! Am I baldheaded ? Have I that 

io 145 


Near the Throne 


tired look? Are all the buttons off my shirt? 
Me married? What’s the use of having a wife 
when you can have worry without one ? ” 

“ P-p-precisely,” Carmier agreed. “Th-that’s 
a c-clever idea ! But ” 

"I’ll tell you a secret,” put in the genial phi- 
losopher, as if he were the speaker who had not 
been permitted to finish his sentence. “ My 
wife ” 

Carmier grasped him by the hands and shook 
them warmly. “ Then you’re not a b-b-bachelor ? ” 
he said evidently pleased to hear it — though 
Monsieur Taschereau had never done him any 
harm. 

“No,” was the satisfying answer. 

“Where is she?” 

“Don’t know. I’m a widower. ” 

The truth was that Monsieur Carmier was look- 
ing for a sympathizer, but he might have con- 
cluded that interrogation in this quarter would 
not end his quest. Evidently he caught sight of 
Mademoiselle Fleury, for without another remark 
he left his companion and hastened up the steps 
and in among the gay and coloured lights of the 
Palace. 

Plutarque Taschereau was not left long alone. 
Another and larger group of guests came up im- 
mediately. Among them were Hassan and his 
daughter. Near them a lame beggar hobbled; 

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Near the Throne 


his back was stooped with the misfortunes and 
hardships of many years, so that you could see 
less of his face or whatever of it was not hidden 
beneath his long white beard, than of his hair 
which was snowy and combed in spite of his 
mendicancy. As Nazira walked across the pave- 
ment with her father, she dropped a small coin 
into the beggar’s uplifted palm. As if in deep 
gratitude for her kindness the old man tried to 
kiss her hand. She allowed it — he was so old and 
was clean. He barely touched her delicate skin 
with his lips but as he withdrew she felt where 
the tips of his fingers were a piece of paper pressed 
against her hand. Instinctively she closed her 
hold upon it, then Osman came up and spoke to 
her father. It was a note. The two men engaged 
in conversation. She took this opportunity to 
turn aside and read it. The writing was scarcely 
decipherable — it faltered so unevenly from the 
trembling pen of the lame beggar. If Nazira had 
only known with what it trembled! But she 
managed to make out the words : 

“ I can tell you of some one of whom you might 
like to hear. He sends a message by me. Come 
out soon from the Palace.” 

She quickly slipped the note away as her father 
and Murad came up. 

“You heard the betrothal is ended?” said 
Hassan, as if the remark were a preliminary step, 
i47 


Near the Throne 


and not noticing that the beggar was listening 
with an eager carelessness. 

“Yes,” answered the Pasha. 

“ You remember you promised me that letter? ” 

“ I sent it to you.” 

“ You sent it to me ? ” 

“ By Captain Balzar. He has been acting as 
my aide.” 

The falsehood slipped easily and gracefully from 
his lips. Surely Allah must love a prevaricator 
so adroit and so cheerful ! Then there is always 
something artistic about a good honest liar. Fab- 
rication is the link between the Orient and the 
Occident. 

“I have not received the letter yet,” the mer- 
chant replied. 

“The Frenchman must have opened it.” 

“ And to avenge himself ” 

“ Sent the document to Bonaparte,” added 
Murad. 

“ Poor Orde,” whined the beggar who was right 
beside them. “ Poor deaf Orde Hafid — so hungry, 
poor Hafid — deaf.” 

“ Get out of the way,” said Osman brusquely 
coming up and seizing the cripple by the should- 
ers, shoving him roughly to one side as the three 
Egyptians engaged in a subdued but animated 
conversation. 

That piece of brutality was nearly being the 
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Near the Throne 

astrologer’s last. The beggar suddenly straight- 
ened himself up to his full height, at once lost all 
his lameness, quickly drew something shining and 
sharp from his belt ; but the next second Marcel 
checked this impulse of resentment and shrank 
back again to the dimensions 
of the deformed pauper — just 
in time, for Osman glanced 
around. And the hour was 
not yet. 

Putting the poniard back 
in its sheath, his features hard 
set and his steel gray eyes 
glistening, Marcel said to 
himself : 

“ I have a great trust to 
fulfil.” 

And he watched Nazira 
and her father enter the 
Palace with Murad, and 
saw her look back at him. 

“ Here ! ” said the old trickster, assuming a gen- 
erosity which he did not possess and tossing a 
coin. “ Poor fellow ! ” 

Orde Hafid hobbled toward it with some fears 
as to whether his disguise had been discovered. 

“ Heuh ! ” said Osman beneath his breath, as- 
cending the stairs and smiling as the cripple picked 
up the piece of counterfeit money. “ I’ve got rid 
149 



Near the Throne 


of that ! ” Then to the beggar who bowed in 
mock gratitude he added : “ Now be off — or 
else — the Nile ! ” 

He too went into the Palace. 

“For your master!” added Captain Balzar, 
with determined emphasis and looking after the Bey 
until the massive doors were closed by the Arabian 
servitors. Then flicking the coin into the river 
he went on : “ Murad, that’s where you’re going! ” 

Monsieur Taschereau, who had been quietly 
watching his chance, came up at this moment to 
Orde Hafid’s double. 

“A woman taken to the secret dungeons,” 
whispered Balzar to him hurriedly — “the fifth 
slab, counting in a straight line from a yellow 
cross on a stone in the river wall? Was that 
what you told me ? ” 

“That’s it,” answered Plutarque, as they found 
the mark and followed the very explicit directions 
to the opening. 

“ A Frenchwoman ? ” 

“ So said Worda. She was looking for you.” 

“ What cell ? ” inquired Balzar, feeling for the 
spring. 

Taschereau shook his head. 

“ What cell ? ” the Captain asked again. 

“ I don't know,” answered Plutarque. 

“ What cell ? ” Marcel repeated in a hesitating 
way, pushing the stone around on its pivot. He 
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Near the Throne 


thought a moment. Then, as if a light dawned 
upon his mind, he exclaimed : “ Cell thirty one ! ” 

Taschereau looked the wonderment that he 
would have denied. How did it happen that the 
surgeon was so omniscient ? 

“ Parrots are useful,” admitted Captain Balzar. 

The observation was enough for the quick 
penetration of the old journalist. The possibilities 
of the green bird before which Murad and Osman 
had been talking immediately occurred to the wit 
of the Latin Quarter. Besides, was he not him- 
self fond of all things green : the green grass, the 
green fields, and the green Chartreuse ? 

“ Dangerous ! ” Marcel acknowledged, as he 
peered into the darkness of the passage through 
which big rats were scampering and stepped 
down — “ but everything worth doing is dangerous. 
Watch.” 

The order was obeyed wisely. Monsieur 
Taschereau walked a few steps toward the Palace, 
listened carefully for the slightest sound of any 
one coming, kept one eye on the narrow parade to 
the east between the wall, and the other on the 
black distance to the north. From the opening 
he could just distinguish a faint noise — it was 
Balzar hammering on the iron doors below. Then 
he thought he heard a footstep approaching — per- 
haps one of the sentries. He ran to the opening 
of the passage. 

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“ Monsieur! ” he shouted. 

No answer came — nothing but the hammering. 

“Monsieur!” he shouted the second time and 
more loudly. 

In less than a minute Balzar was up and out. 

“The door is fastened,” he said, clicking the 
lock. “ I must get the keys.” 

The warning was given none too soon, for the 
quick limbed Taschereau had barely time to dis- 
appear by the friendly aid of the shadows which 
the moonlight fortunately made more dense, when 
Murad and Osman came out from the Palace. 

Balzar, still thinking of the woman in the 
secret dungeons and of the impregnable iron of 
the thick doors below, said again to himself as if 
repetition would smooth away the impossible and 
enable him to think of a plan of action : 

“ I must get the keys.” 




CHAPTER III 


A WINGED MESSENGER 

As the Pasha and the astrologer came down 
the steps the latter said with a questioning glance : 

“ You excused yourself from the banquet? ” 

“ By urgent work of state,” answered Murad, 
contracting his brows and placing his forefinger to 
his lips so that his countenance assumed an ex- 
pression of malign subtlety — “for a short time.” 

“ I have been considering the question we were 
speaking of.” 

“ And your conclusion ? ” 

Neither noticed how intently the lame mute 
was listening. 

“ The best thing to do now is to massacre every 
Frenchman in Cairo.” 

“ You’re a statesman. Brands, bayonets, night — 
and we’re rid of the pests. Every Frenchman? 
By Allah! English, Italians, Germans and all! 
I’ll kill every foreigner in Egypt ! The massacre’s 
the thing ! ” 

Osman was wholly gratified with this hearty 
adoption of his policy and was eager to outline his 
scheme for the bloody undertaking. 

i53 


Near the Throne 


“That’s my doctrine,” he replied. “Egypt for 
the Egyptians — to the crocodiles with the rest! ” 

“ How soon can it be done ? ” asked Murad. 

“ One week hence.” 

“ Too long.” 

“ Let me see — three days.” 

“ One day,” said the Pasha, being himself a 
man of quick and decisive action. 

“To make complete arrangements ? Impossible. 
Give me two days.” 

“All right,” Murad agreed. “Within forty- 
nine hours from now.” Then with a gesture of 
caution toward Orde Hafid, he added : “ Beggars 
have ears. ” 

“ Tie up the bag when the cat is out,” muttered 
Balzar with grim satisfaction. 

It is very droll, the ease with which an honest 
man may dupe a consummate rogue. Bravery 
may be opposed to daring and defeat the boldest 
adventurer in open combat, but knavery must often 
be met with chicanery. 

“ A man will never tell what he has not heard,” 
answered Osman, as they went up the steps to 
the Palace. Both were conscious of their clever- 
ness and power. This was their dangerous weak- 
ness. 

“ What about these Carthusian monks now in 
Cairo ? ” asked Osman. 

“ They say they’ve never been out of their cage 
x 54 


Near the Throne 

before. They’re making a pilgrimage to Jeru- 
salem.” 

“ And expect the protection of Bonaparte in 
Palestine. ” 

“They’re harmless. They may wander about 
this city, but not one of them shall ever leave it. ” 
“ They die with the rest ? ” 

“Why not? There’s nothing that I respect in 
their blood. ” 

“ But their habit ? ” 

“I’ll hang them all with their own girdles.” 

As the two Egyptians disappeared, Worda ap- 
proached cautiously from the opposite direction. 
“I’m rather poor myself,” she said, going up to 

the beggar, “ but I think I have -” 

“ Sh ! ” warned Balzar, as she recognized him 
and sounds of music came from the half-open 
doors. 

“ Marcel ! ” the girl exclaimed. “ What are 
you doing in that disguise? ” 

“ Where have you been during the past three 
weeks ? ” he asked, not heeding her question. “ I 
could not find you anywhere. Keeping my promise 
to you ended my betrothal to Nazira. ” 

“ I heard of it only today, from Lucine.” 

“ I would have broken it, had I got the chance.” 
“ You tried ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ How ? ” 


*55 


Near the Throne 


“ I called upon Hassan. He refused to see me. 
I wrote Nazira four times. Her father returned 
my letters unopened. Everything I sent her was 
returned except one : a little faded flower she 
dropped one day — a rose, and in among its pet- 
als — a ring. What more can I do? ” 

Worda thought quickly. “ Leave the rest to 
me,” she replied, forming a decision. 

“ You will do it?” he said, understanding her 
expression and divining her purpose. “ Speak to 
her for me ? ” 

“Tonight,” she answered. 

He knew Worda always meant what she said 
and did what she promised and that her loyalty 
would find the way. She was aware of his con- 
fidence ; it pleased her and nerved her. 

“I wish,” Marcel went on, “you would do 
something else to help me.” 

“ What ? ” 

“ Can you think of any means to send a mes- 
sage to Napoleon ? ” 

“ Where is he now ? ” 

“ Near Belbeis. ” 

She smiled and took the glossy breasted pigeon 
out from beneath her robe. “ My little pet will 
take it.” 

“How?” 

“ By flying there. That is his home.” 

“An Antwerp — the best carrier pigeon!” 

156 


ex- 


Near the Throne 


claimed the Captain, observing with a fancier’s eye 
the well defined wattles on the bird’s short beak 
and the chocolate bars on its dun wings, noting at 
the same time that from the convexity of its head 



and the tapering of its body toward the tail that 
it was of the true Belgian breed and likely to 
possess keenness of sight, strength of wing, speed 
of flight. 

“ The pigeon is trained to fly to Belbeis,” Worda 
responded. 

“ What shall I write the note on ? ” 

“It must be very light,” she admonished him. 
i57 


Near the Throne 


Marcel took a letter from his pocket intending 
to write on the unused side. 

“ Oh, that will never do!” she said. “It’s too 
heavy ! ” 

“Some cigarette paper,” he suggested. 

“ Excellent ! ” 

“ But there are no pens around.” 

“ They wouldn’t do anyway. ” 

“You’d scarcely believe how vain I am,” the 
young Copt said, as if making a confession. “ I 
pencil my eyebrows every morning.” 

The Captain naturally wondered a moment what 
this little matter of an Egyptian girl’s toilet had 
to do with the present problem. 

“ Here,” she added, handing him the tiny pencil. 

“ The very thing,” he said. 

“ Be quick! ” she urged, fearing one of the sen- 
tries might appear. 

Leaning on his knee the surgeon wrote in very 
small characters : 

“ Bonaparte : Murad has usurped everything — 
is near the throne. Come quickly and prevent 
massacre. Balzar.” 

“ Let me tie it on,” said Worda. 

Both simultaneously went into their pockets. 
The search was futile. 

“No string,” she announced in a tone that 
asked what they were to do now. 

But while Balzar was puzzled Worda was busy. 

158 


Near the Throne 


She deftly ripped a pretty feminine undergarment 
and pulling out a silk thread tied the message 
under the carrier’s wing. 

“ Is it secure? ” inquired the Captain. 

“ Perfectly,” she assured him, giving the pigeon 
into his hands. 

“ Now then — away ! ” 

He threw the bird with its precious despatch 
off toward the north so as to avoid the sentinels 
who might be around the Palace. 

They watched it circle until its flight could no 
longer be distinguished in the twilight that had 
deepened into night. 

“ Look ! ” said Marcel, handing his companion a 
miniature. “ Do you like that picture ? Nazira 
gave it me.” 

Worda stared at the face on the ivory and kiss- 
ing it cried : 

“ My mother! ” 

Marcel Balzar, with his physician’s knowledge 
that all women are sisters beneath the skin, could 
not help remarking to himself : “ There is often 
more honest worth in an unfortunate girl’s heart 
than there is beneath the snowy robes of saints.” 

“ Marcel,” said Worda, looking up and pressing 
the portrait to her breast, “you have won. I am 
going home — for her sake.” 

As she started off Murad walked out from the 
Palace. 


*59 


Near the Throne 


“Worda!” he called. 

Not observing him and kissing the picture 
again, she repeated the word: “Mother.” 

Balzar, quickly perceiving her danger, went be- 
tween them and lifting his right arm to a position 
that pretended to be apolo- 
getic, but was really protective 
and threatening, begging all 
the time, prevented Murad 
from touching her. 

The instant Worda saw the 
Pasha she ran, and so escaped. 

Murad could not wisely have 
followed, even had he wished, 
as three water carriers who 
had been invited to the ban- 
quet just then came in view. 

“Poor Orde,” begged Bal- 
zar. “ Poor Orde Hafid, so 
deaf and lame.” 

The guests went into the 
Palace. Murad walked off slowly on the parade 
between the building and the wall of the river. 

Balzar hobbled after him as far as the marble 
steps. As the soft sensuous strains of an Egyp- 
tian love song floated from the Palace of Saladin, 
he saw coming out the door the woman he had 
been waiting for all the evening, who was more 
to him than life — Nazira. 

x6o 



CHAPTER IV 


THE DESIRE OF THE HEART 

Intently watching Nazira slowly descend the 
steps, Orde Hafid hobbled up, anxious yet dread- 
ing to speak lest his voice or the glance of his 
eyes might betray him too soon to her who knew 
both so well. 

“ You gave me this note? ” she said, very close 
to his ear so as to avoid the necessity of speaking 
loudly. 

He bowed assent. 

“ You have a message for me? ” 

“Yes,” he answered, keeping his face down- 
ward as if his back were bent very much, and as 
suming the feeble tones of the beggar from India. 

“ From whom ? ” 

“ From Marcel Balzar. ” 

“ What is it ? ” she asked, forgetting to restrain 
her eagerness. 

His head lifted involuntarily as if to reply. 
That was the movement he should have controlled. 

“Ah!” she exclaimed staring at him. “You are 
not Orde Hafid, the deaf beggar. You are ” 

“ Sh ! ” he said, removing the beard from his 
chin and straightening himself to his full height. 
ii 161 


Near the Throne 


“ Why have you done this ? ” she demanded. 

“ I wanted to see you, Nazira, and could not.” 

“ Because you should not.” 

“ I longed for a sight of your face,” he an- 
swered, “for the sound of your voice, the caress 
of your arms — so often I have felt upon my own 
the sweet touch of your lips and your eyes are 
always looking into mine.” 

She started to leave him and return to the 
Palace, realizing not only her revulsion at meeting 
this man again and her duty to her father, but the 
danger she was in. 

“ Nazira,” he entreated. “ Listen to me.” 

“ I must not,” she replied with decision. 
“ Your past in Paris. Your life in Cairo.” 

“ Well,” he said, waiting for the inference from 
these phrases. This line of attack was certainly 
unexpected. 

“ Is it true? ” she questioned with firmness and 
fear and indignation all mingled in her voice. It 
is strange how a woman will argue against herself 
and her hopes. 

“Surely,” he responded, “you are not one of 
those who believe a man’s past life should be 
immaculate ! ” 

“And a man’s present?” she retorted. 
“ Worda — that afternoon — my father — your re- 
fusal to explain.” 

“ Do not speak of that. ” 

162 


Near the Throne 


“The evidence was so much against you.” 

“ Evidence ! ” he repeated with astonishment 
on every feature. 

“ Yes.” 

“ There was none.” 

“ My father thought there was — so did I. And 
you did not even try to clear yourself.” 

“ Clear myself !” 

“ My father gave you the chance.” 

“ There was nothing to ” 

“ Do now.” 

“Trust me, Nazira.” 

“No — that will not satisfy me.” 

“ See how unreasonable you are.” 

“ Unreasonable ? ” 

“ Could I not easily lie to you ? I ask only one 
thing : you have said you are willing to believe 
in my word — believe in me.” 

“You refuse then? Be it so.” 

“Trust me — for a little while.” 

“Why should I?” 

“ For the sake of our love.” 

“The past is dead.” 

“ But surely ” 

“You can have nothing to say that I care to 
hear. ” 

“ Do not cut me off like ” 

Her whole body made a gesture of intense im- 
patience and disgust. 

163 


Near the Throne 


“Then I deny it,” he said — “it was not true! 
There was nothing between Worda and myself 
that was wrong. Now are you content ? ” 

“No! I agree with you: you could easily lie 
to me. I believe you,” hesitating and looking 
earnestly at him — “guilty.” 

After a moment of surprise and mental darkness 
Balzar took her wrist and answered with authority : 

“ No!” 

“This is the end,” Nazira replied, releasing 
herself from his grasp. 

“ It cannot be,” he urged, pleading with the 
Egyptian. “For a long time now you have been 
my hope. As we walked in the shadows of the 
old pyramids and among the ruins of the crum- 
bling palaces my soul was filled with you. You 
have been my guardian spirit, my angel, my god- 
dess ! Your image made my breast a chaste 
temple — and there my heart has worshipped you. 
When in your presence and listening to your 
voice my soul seemed lifted up as if on music’s 
wings. When you smiled upon me I felt it sweet 
to live, to love, in the light of your kindly eyes — 
and longed to call you my own. You are all the 
world to me. For months your glance has been a 
soft chain — I am your slave, and you my queen ! 
O Nazira, be my bride — through all our days — 
till death — forever. For I love you more than 
life or duty — or God ! ” 

164 



Surely,” he responded, “you are not one of those who believe a 
man’s past life should be immaculate?” 


Near the Throne 


“ It is no use speaking further,” the girl replied 
looking him straight in the face, utterly indiffer- 
ent to his prayer. 

“ Yes, Nazira.” 

“ I have said it is not. Love is too near to hate. 
There was a time when you could do anything you 
wished with me. But you can never win me back 
again. This is false — like all you have said. 
And I hate you ! ” 

Balzar answered passionately with his hands 
outstretched beseechingly, but not venturing to 
touch her : 

“You do not. You love me still, Nazira — you 
do — you do — you love me now ! ” 

Their eyes met squarely — such an unswerving 
piercing look, as if they were trying to search each 
other’s souls. Then as if in half denial of the last 
sentence which she had spoken with such vehe- 
mence, the girl’s eyelids drooped and she regarded 
him with a strange gaze through her long black 
lashes. But neither moved an inch either forward 
or backward. 

Finally Nazira, bowing her head, said slowly; 
and there was fear and even shame in her tones : 

“ I want you, Marcel. In spite of all I love you — 
I believe in you. These weeks have been so dreary 
without you, dear one. I have been in misery. 
At night I waken and cry out for you. Why do 
you suppose my cheeks are pale and my eyes are 
1 66 


Near the Throne 


sunken ? It is because my whole being longs for 
you, my heart’s life — and you have been away 
from me. Oh, I want you, for my husband ! ” 

“ Nazira ! ” exclaimed Marcel breathlessly to 
her and starting a step. But his surprise and 
perplexity quickly changed to resolution before 
Nazira, putting her arms around his neck, said as 
he kissed her : 

“ It is true, Marcel, every word, every word — 
my Marcel !” 

All the repressed intensity of her nature was 
poured into those two last words — the words that 
Marcel would so often have given the world to 
hear. As he put his arm around her waist she 
removed it and said : 

“ But — I cannot.” 

“ You must,” he answered, so near to her and 
with intense fervour. 

Nazira felt again what numberless times she 
had longed in vain for : his warm breath upon her 
cheek and the sound of his soft pleading voice, 
full of richer music to her ears than the strains of 
the waltz drifting from the Palace. 

“You know,” she reminded him, “the author- 
ity parents have over their children in France?” 

“ What of that ? ” 

“It is greater in Egypt — it is absolute.” 

“ Disobey ! ” he responded in mingled supplica- 
tion and command, taking her tightly in his arms. 

167 


Near the Throne 


“ It is impossible.” 

“ We are our own law ! ” he urged. 

“My love,” she answered in his embrace and 
twining her arms about his neck, “ I cannot — or 
see you any more.” 

Just at that moment Lucine appeared and said 
excitedly : 

“ Your father is looking all over for you. He is 
coming.” 

Balzar instantly slipped on his beard and as- 
sumed the attitude of the decrepit Orde Hafid. 
Nazira pointed in the direction opposite the Palace 
and said : 

“ Quickly!” 

Lifting her hand to his lips, Marcel responded : 

“ We shall meet again — my wife ! ” 

Then he hobbled into the darkness. 

Hassan, coming down the steps in a few 
seconds, demanded of his daughter : 

“Where have you been? ” 

“Taking the air, father.” 

“With me,” added Lucine. 

Nazira pressed the maid’s hand in acknowledg- 
ment of the favour and said with a shrug of her 
shoulders : 

“ It was so oppressive inside.” Then she con- 
tinued lightly, “ Come, Lucine — to the music. 
Will you give me your arm, father?” 

Hassan took them in just in time to miss see- 
168 


Near the Throne 


ing Murad and Osman. But the merchant had 
noticed the absence of the two conspirators, and 
wondered if it meant a pistol or the river, whether 
the night would end with a shot or a splash — and 
who was destined to be the man. 



CHAPTER V 


THE PRISONER AND THE CHOICE 

“ I want my throne to be founded,” said Murad 
as he and his companion stopped a few paces from 
the opening to the secret passage, “ on the good 
will of all Egyptians.” 

“ Philanthropy or patriotism ? ” 

“ Neither. Policy.” 

“ A wise precaution. ” 

“ There are many not at the feast who should 
be here.” 

“ True. ” 

“ Send for them, Osman.” 

“ Fuad?” 

“No. One of themselves.” 

“ Who ? ” Immediately catching sight of the 
beggar he added : “ Orde Hafid ? ” 

“ He will do,” answered Murad. 

“ It looks as if it were time to go,” thought Cap- 
tain Balzar, starting off slowly and not observing 
the approach of Taschereau down the steps. 

“ Invite the people,” proceeded Murad, which 
continuance of the discussion gave the strategic 
170 


Near the Throne 


Plutarque the opportunity to walk slowly across 
unobserved behind all three. “ Camel drivers, cob- 
blers, fish mongers, pedlars — river rats — every- 
body.” 

“ Orde,” called Osman, going after him. 

Marcel was hastening as much as was consistent 
with the lameness of the mendicant whose in- 
firmities furnished him with so effective a disguise. 

“ He’s deaf,” said Murad. 

Osman called more loudly : 

“ Hafid ! ” 

Balzar quickened his steps. The noise had 
brought in Sebah and Fuad. 

“ Orde Hafid ! ” shouted Osman again, as Murad 
caught up to him and caught hold of the old beg- 
gar’s cloak. “Orde! You ” 

The Pasha pulled the cloak off. 

Seeing his disguise ruined, Marcel instantly 
threw off his wig and beard. 

“Balzar!” exclaimed the Pasha. 

“ The beggar from India ! ” laughed the Captain, 
who had already drawn his poniard. 

Murad’s scimitar leaped from its scabbard. 

Marcel rushed furiously upon the Moslem. Le 
Beau Sabreur’s hand was uplifted, every muscle 
and sinew strained. This seemed to be his only 
chance now, and he was desperate. The blade 
was descending, aimed at the Pasha’s heart when 
his arm was gripped from behind by Sebah. In 
171 


Near the Throne 


an instant Fuad seized his left. He had tried to 
kill this enemy and failed. 

“ Chains for him/’ commanded Murad. 

The two Mamelukes quickly disarmed the 
Chasseur and placed him securely in irons. 

At this moment Plutarque Taschereau disap- 
peared in the darkness toward the city. 

“Keep the sabre,” Murad said after examining 
the weapons of the prisoner. 

Sebah took the trophy eagerly. 

The Pasha himself appeared to desire a smaller 
souvenir. 

“ Give me the poniard,” he said. 

Fuad obeyed. 

“ It is strange,” continued Murad, eyeing Cap- 
tain Balzar with a sneer. “ Strange the son should 
so quickly follow the mother.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“Just what I say.” 

“ My mother in prison ? ” 

“ She is safe below.” And he tramped exult- 
antly upon the pavement. 

“ I saw her at home an hour ago,” answered the 
Frenchman, though the argument was more to 
convince himself than his opponent. 

“Much may happen in an hour,” remarked the 
Pasha sententiously. “ Would you know her 
voice ? ” 

“ My mother’s voice? ” 

172 


Near the Throne 


“ Lead him into the next cell,” replied Murad 
addressing the soldiers, and taking a whip from 
Sebah. “Then touch the woman with this.” 

“That’ll make her speak,” added Osman in 
approval. 

“ I want no proof,” protested Balzar. 

“ But you’ll have it now,” the Arabian replied. 

“ I believe you. ” 

“Go on ! ” commanded the Pasha. 

“ The cell ” put in Osman. 

“Thirty one,” said Murad thinking the as- 
trologer meant they should be reminded of the 
number. 

“ Is not far along the passage,” added the old 
Saracen suggestively. 

Murad was quick of perception. He said: 

“He could listen from here. Let him.” 

Sebah had already opened the entrance to the 
secret dungeons and he at once descended. Cap- 
tain Balzar struggled hard, but all in vain : Murad 
held him and the chains were strong and heavy. 
In a few seconds screams were heard. 

“ Again ! ” called Osman down the passage- 
way. 

“ Stop ! ” shouted Balzar, indignant and en- 
raged— but powerless. 

As another crack of the lash sounded out cruelly 
he heard his mother crying : 

“ Mercy!” 


03 


Near the Throne 


“ Now do you believe ? ” asked Murad mock- 
ingly. 

“Yes,” was Marcel’s reply, his nails pressed 
into his palms. 

“ Call Sebah,” ordered the Pasha to Osman. 

Turning away from them Marcel Balzar made a 
vow for whose fulfillment he believed heaven 
would lend its power : 

“The trust is threefold now. And I will not 
forget them — Sebah, Osman, Murad. The first 
for vengeance, the second for justice, the third for 
triumph ! ” 

The Pasha was gazing down at the river when a 
rattle of Balzar’s chains attracted his attention. 
Then he turned and stood with folded arms in safe 
defiance, looking upon his foe as a hunter would 
regard a frenzied beast in a cage. The French 
Captain, like a madman who yet has method, 
turned to him and repeated the words of the trust 
with an emphasis born of fury and determination : 

First : 

“Vengeance ! ” 

Murad took a step forward. 

Then : 

“Justice ! ” 

There was still more of the taunt in the smile 
of the Egyptian. 

Finally : 

“ Triumph ! ” 


174 


Near the Throne 


This threatening enigma Murad met with the 
masterful indifference that he had cultivated so 
assiduously. 

“ Balzar,” he said resuming the subject that had 
been occupying his mind, “ I shall be liberal with 
you.” 

Swinging open the door of the secret dungeons, 
Osman in obedience called down : 

“ Sebah ! ” 

“ You may select your own sentence,” continued 
Murad, after a moment’s thought. “ I shall give 

you a choice : your mother’s freedom ” the 

Pasha paused a moment, as a click of bolts below 
seemed to accentuate the necessity for the ac- 
ceptance of this offer — “and,” he went on, “her 
safe conduct to the French army, with your im- 
prisonment for life.” 

“ Or death,” remarked the astrologer beneath 
his breath. 

Sebah, entering in time to hear the last sen- 
tence, exchanged glances with Fuad. 

“Or else,” continued Murad, giving the option: 
“your freedom, with your mother’s immediate 
sale to an Arab slave dealer, leaving tonight for 
the Soudan.” 

“A most liberal offer,” said Osman making 
more marked his master’s sarcasm. 

“ It is no choice ! ” replied Marcel. 

“ Your reason ? ” 


05 


Near the Throne 


" There is but one alternative for a man to 
take — the first. ” 

“ Will you take it ? ” Murad asked with feigned 
eagerness. “ And give for her ” 

Captain Balzar’s answer was instant and un- 
equivocal : 

“ My life!” 


CHAPTER VI 


A VEILED MESSAGE 

Murad immediately gave his orders to Sebah 
and Fuad, who were quick to obey, not so much 
because they delighted to mete out cruelty to any 
European but because of the despicable servility 
of their natures. 

“ Remove the prisoner,” commanded the Pasha 
with an ostentatious show of honesty in carrying 
out his compact, “ to the dungeon under the north 
wall. Release Madame Henri Balzar at once and 
provide her safe escort as far as the army of Bona- 
parte.” 

“ But,” interposed the Captain, “ you will grant 
me one request ? ” 

“ Name it.” 

“ Permission to see my mother before she de- 
parts and I go to,” hesitating as though in doubt 
how to characterize his sentence — “ to what I have 
earned. ” 

Murad, touching Osman on the shoulder and 
walking a few steps away with him,, called the 
Mameluke : 


12 


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Near the Throne 


“ Sebah ! ” 

The Pasha’s move was to give a contemptible 
instruction to that sycophant, though he intended 
it to have the appearance of wishing to carefully 
consider the question with the astrologer before 
making answer. 

The soldier came quickly to his superior’s 
side. 

“Take the woman away,” was Murad’s order to 
him, “ while Balzar is speaking with her — back to 
her own cell — thirty one.” 

Sebah saluted in obedience. 

“There’s some one coming,” said Osman in 
warning, and looking into the darkness toward the 
east. “ It’s Taschereau.” 

“ Give him the opportunity to speak to Balzar,” 
replied Murad surmising that that was probably 
just what the old Frenchman wanted and at once 
conceiving a plan to turn the interview against 
the Captain and his secretary and to his own 
advantage. 

“ Fuad ! ” called Osman. 

The Mameluke immediately joined them and the 
four engaged in earnest conversation. Taschereau 
imagining he was unobserved or at least unheeded 
stole cautiously to Balzar. Marcel harboured no 
such delusion but having little to lose and every- 
thing to gain was prepared to take chances and 
run risks. 


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Near the Throne 


“ Here’s a file,” whispered the practical Plu- 
tarque. “And a letter.” 

Captain Balzar took them quickly and hid them 
under his coat. But as he did so, he perceived 
that his action had been seen. To cover his 
possession of the file, which he was extremely 
anxious not to lose, he withdrew the paper and 
glancing at it with well feigned caution, said to 
Taschereau, being careful to speak loudly enough 
for the listening Murad to hear : 

“ From Bonaparte. ” 

The Pasha, with his customary quick intelli- 
gence, made a correct surmise and whispered to 
Osman : 

“ A despatch.” 

Balzar recognized the familiar writing at sight, 
the strange and characteristic hand of the little 
Corsican. 

Monsieur Taschereau by this time was endea- 
vouring to make good his escape. His athletic 
days at the Sorbonne now served him well. 

“ Arrest him ! ” ordered Murad a trifle per- 
functorily. In reality he cared little for the 
custody of the old journalist — just yet. 

Sebah and Fuad ran in pursuit. 

Turning to Captain Balzar, Murad said as if 
nothing had happened : 

“ Your request is granted.” 

“ I thank your Excellency,” answered Marcel 
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Near the Throne 


with as much courtesy as such a phrase should be 
delivered with were it addressed to the first gen- 
tleman of Europe. 

The two soldiers returned at this moment, but 
without Monsieur Taschereau; evidently he was 
fleeter of foot or knew intimately some of the dark 
and tortuous byways among the ruins of this part 
of the city. 

“ I hold you responsible for your prisoner,” said 
Murad to them. “ But Balzar, that letter — very 
clumsily done.” 

“ It’s a private letter,” answered the Captain. 

“ From Napoleon,” retorted the Egyptian. “ So 
much the better. Make haste.” 

Captain Balzar knew there was no use endanger- 
ing his wrist in an unequal struggle. He ex- 
pected to need it the next time his hand grasped 
a sabre. And he hoped that time would be soon. 
Therefore he reluctantly handed the document as 
demanded. 

“Take the prisoner to his cell,” continued 
Murad to Fuad and Sebah, opening the letter and 
reading — a favour Marcel had scarcely expected : 

“ Dear Doctor : Please call at once. My tooth- 
ache is worse.” 

There was no signature. 

It was with difficulty that Balzar concealed his 
surprise and Murad his chagrin. 

“ A letter in cipher ! ” the Chasseur said to him- 
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Near the Throne 


self beneath his breath, translating it from their 
code : “ Left Belbeis noon today. Wait for the 
roll of the drum.” 

The young Saracen was plainly enraged. 

Then Balzar spoke aloud to the usurper : 

“ Murad, when you want me, send for me. ” 

“ I shall.” 

“ With my sword as a pen I could write a pre- 
scription for you that would cure you of all aches 
and pains.” 

“ Away with him ! ” commanded the Pasha en- 
deavouring to appear indifferent to this bold 
affront. 

“ Murad,” continued the Captain, though held 
securely in the custody of Sebah and Fuad and 
going toward the opening to the secret dungeons, 
“ Napoleon has a message for you.” 

“ Where is it ? ” 

“ He will send it. ” 

“ How?” 

As Marcel disappeared with the two soldiers his 
reply rang back : 

“ Wrapped round a bullet ! ” 


CHAPTER VII 


THE TEMPTATION OF THE PURPLE 

Left alone with Osman and looking after the 
irrepressible though vanquished soldier of France 
whose receding footsteps were still audible, Murad 
said rather testily for a man endowed with so 
comprehensive a mind : 

“His name sickens me. Wherever I go I hear 
it : in palace, on street, in hospital, in camp, in 
trench — nothing but Balzar, Balzar, Balzar ! ” 

“Yet,” suggested the astrologer anxious to turn 
his master from the contemplation of so unpleasant 
a subject, “with Balzar out of the way ” 

Seeing the vista unfolding plainly before him, 
the Pasha responded warmly : 

“ I am near the throne.” 

“Tomorrow morning — ” the old man went on 
with insinuation in the raising of his brows and 
the wrinkling of his forehead. 

“ The coronation ! ” answered the youthful con- 
spirator, his voice swelling with enthusiasm. 
“ Then I shall begin — to build again the empire 
of the Pharaohs ! ” 

“ And tomorrow night ? ” 

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Near the Throne 


“ Nazira ! ” 

“ Yes, Murad ! ” 

“ Here — in the Palace of Saladin ! ” 

“ A creature beyond all dreams ! ” 

Breathing faster the younger Egyptian walked 
toward the river wall, but his eyes were fixed on 
the entrance as if he saw the vision approaching, 
for the doors swung open as he continued : 

“ Oh, for such a woman — my crown, my sceptre, 
my kingdom ! ” 

At that moment Hassan and his daughter 
emerged from the Palace. 

“You have quite forgotten Marcel Balzar?” 
the merchant was saying as they came down the 
steps. 

“Father, do I not always obey you?” the 
daughter replied evasively, though apparently he 
did not notice it, her manner was so assuring. 

“You should be ashamed of such a man,” he 
said, half in caution, half in reprimand. 

“ Ashamed of Marcel ? ” she exclaimed as they 
disappeared. “ No. When I blush it will not be 
for him!” 

Then the two Mamelukes returned and resumed 
their sentry duty, pacing up and down the full 
length of the wall. 

“You have not read the heavens for some time, 
Osman,” said the Pasha. “Do so.” 

“Yes, your Excellency.” 


Near the Throne 


The astrologer bowed and went into the Palace. 

With all Murad’s craft and daring, with all his 
heartless cruelty and consuming ambition, he had 
a lofty intellect : for he loved the song of a nightin- 
gale as well as the clash of battle — he was a highly 
educated and cultured Oriental, endowed with the 
mind of a Teutonic philosopher and the soul of 
an Arabic poet. 

“ How beautiful ! ” he said scanning the east- 
ern sky. “ The evening is like a lovely maiden : 
the stars are the pearls upon her neck, the dark 
clouds her braided hair, the deepening space her 
flowing robe. For a diadem she has the heavens 
where the seraphs dwell. Her eyes are the white 
lotus flowers, which open to the rising moon. 
And her voice is the rippling of the waters. I 
wonder why this lovely maiden comes arrayed so 
divinely — sultana of the night ? ” 

Osman came back with a telescope, a compass, 
and a large book under his arm. “ Perhaps 
Balzar ” he suggested. 

Murad read his thought before it was uttered. 
“Good!” he said. “ Have him brought. ” 

The two sentries were just passing. The as- 
trologer gave them the order : 

“ Bring your prisoner — Captain Balzar.” 

They went down quickly to the dungeons. 

“Those locks are in good repair?” asked 
Murad, as a click was heard. “ See to it, Osman.” 

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Near the Throne 


“ I shall,” answered the Bey. 

“ We want no escapes. ” 

Sebah and Fuad now returned with Captain 
Balzar. 

“ Osman was just going to read my fortune in 
the stars,” said Murad to Marcel with mockery in 
every tone. “He is a' great astrologer.” 

And Osman added : 

“ Perhaps Balzar would like me to reveal what 
the shining sybils say of his destiny? ” 

“ Oh,” retorted the Captain holding the chains 
on his wrists to keep them from breaking where 
he had filed them. “ I can do that trick on my 
own account.” 

“ Indeed ? ” questioned the old charlatan. 

“ Besides,” continued the prisoner, “ my fortune 
is with myself — not with the stars ! And my right 
arm,” he continued, assuming the attitude of the 
beggarwhen he stepped in between Worda and her 
betrayer, “ can do what all the gods in the universe 
refuse to do in the hour of peril — protect a woman.” 

“ Where ? ” inquired Osman with sarcasm, “ did 
you learn the science of deciphering the heavens ? ” 

“ When I was decapitating the earth — shooting 
Mamelukes ! ” was the quick retort. “ Perhaps 
Murad would like me to read what the twinkling 
sentinels reveal of him. It is fitting that they 
shine at night. Do you see that star — just above 
the Citadel?” 

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Near the Throne 


“The small one?” asked the Pasha looking in 
the direction to which Balzar pointed as accurately 
as the weight of the irons that bound him would 
permit. 

“Yes, your Excellency,” answered Marcel en- 
deavouring to be more specific. “ Beneath that 
brilliant planet. ” 

“I do.” 

“ Can you distinguish toward the east a dark 
cloud ? ” the Captain continued. “ A mere speck 
upon the horizon? ” 

“ What of it ? ” asked the Saracen. 

“ In forty nine hours,” replied Captain Balzar 
with pregnant emphasis and fearless directness, 
“the star will have disappeared beneath the cloud. 
The star is yours ! ” 

“To the dungeon with him,” ordered Murad to 
Sebah and Fuad, becoming choleric. 

They proceeded at once to obey. 

“ Wait ! ” commanded the Pasha led on by the 
temptation of the purple, and reflecting a moment. 
“The Nile would be better.” 

“ He would make good food for fishes,” sug- 
gested Osman with a sinister smile. 

“ Put him in the beggar’s rags again,” said 
Murad. 

The Mamelukes quickly did as they were bidden. 

“Fuad, a sack!” resumed the Mahometan ob- 
serving the prisoner stoop a little and fortunately 
186 


Near the Throne 


not divining the reason. “ Balzar seems a little 
weary.” 

Fuad went with eager haste. 

“But,” put in Osman, “ the water, will refresh 
him.” 

“ And he will find the sack quite a soft bed in 
which to lie,” sneered Murad. 

“And sleep,” added Osman. 

“And dream,” said the Pasha to complete the 
taunt. Then, handing Balzar the coveted piece 
of paper that his stratagem had retained, he said : 
“This letter is no use to me now. Take it to 
Nelson at Alexandria — the current will carry you 
that way.” 

“ You think so ? ” 

“Yes,” said Osman with well feigned patriot- 
ism. “Tonight begins a new era for the people 
of Egypt.” 

“ New eras do not begin with treachery,” de- 
clared Balzar. 

“ What do you mean ? ” inquired Murad. 

“ That the people of Egypt must wait,” was the 
abrupt reply which was at once an announcement 
and a threat. 

“ Wait for what ? ” asked Osman. 

Looking straight into the eyes of Murad, Balzar 
responded : 

“ For the death of a traitor who is — near the 
throne ! ” 

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Near the Throne 


Fuad returned with the desired sack and placed 
it on the pavement in front of the other four 
men. 

‘‘Put him in this,” ordered the Pasha to him 
and Sebah, touching the cloth with his sandal. 
“Then toss him over that,” pointing to the wall. 
“ They say crocodiles have a weakness for Euro- 
peans.” 

“No doubt they would relish a little white 
meat, ” said Osman. 

“ But I think,” ventured Balzar seeing that a 
species of repartee was in order, “ they would like 
a little dark meat better — though they might 
prefer it without dressing. ” 

“Osman,” said Murad dismissing the jest, pos- 
sibly because he had gotten the worst of it, prob- 
ably because he was anxious to despatch his enemy 
without further loss of time, “see that no one 
comes to the windows of the Palace. We want 
no witnesses.” 

The astrologer went immediately up the marble 
steps and into the house of Saladin, closing the 
doors after him. 

Murad, addressing Balzar, continued : 

“ We are playing a fatal game, Monsieur. It is 
for your life or mine.” 

“ You have said it,” replied the Captain sullenly. 

Then turning to his two soldiers the Pasha said : 

“ Sew him up tight — stab him and then to the 
188 


Near the Throne 


Nile. I will go down the river bank and watch for 
the splash. As soon as I see it, I’ll shoot in 
recognition that you have done your duty. Then, 
Sebah, as a signal that all is well you fire one 
shot.” 

“Yes,” said Sebah. 

“You understand?” asked Murad anxious to 
make sure that there should be no mistake in 
carrying out his plans. 

“We put him in the sack,” answered Fuad. 

“I stab him,” went on Sebah. 

“Over he goes into the river,” added Fuad. 

“You see the splash,” continued Sebah. 

“I shoot, well done,” said the Pasha. 

“ I will answer, all’s well — with one shot ! ” an- 
swered Sebah almost impatient for the work. 

And Balzar, the least disconcerted — so forcibly 
did the droll in even the most serious things ap- 
peal to him — remarked to himself : 

“ I wonder what I do all this time? ” 

Murad was evidently well pleased that his faith- 
ful and willing minions knew the details of his 
method so thoroughly. 

“Bon voyage, Monsieur Le Beau Sabreur! ” he 
said with a laugh. 

“ In forty nine hours — to your Excellency ! ” re- 
turned Marcel. 

As the Pasha disappeared in the darkness of the 
passageway between the Palace and the wall of 
189 


Near the Throne 

the river, his eyes aglow and his whole frame 
aquiver, he called to the Mamelukes simply the 
word : 

“ Begin ! ” 

But yet those two small syllables were spoken 
as the prince of demons might say them to the 
evil spirits that are swift to 
fulfil his fiendish purposes. 
In it there was victory and 
malediction. And it was the 
signal. 

Sebah said with a sneer : 
“Now, Balzar, are you 
ready? ” 

“ Ready ? ” he replied break- 
ing the chains asunder where 
he had filed them. “ Ready ? 
Damn it — I’m always ready ! ” 
The Mamelukes were un- 
prepared for this move. 

Grasping the hilt of his 
own sabre which was in Fuad’s 
scabbard the Captain drew it forth like a flash of 
lightning and gave the challenge : 

“For years I’ve been a fighter, so one fight 
more — come on ! ” 

Sebah alone having a sword now, rushed quickly 
upon the rebel, but was no match for the skilful 
blade of Balzar : he was thrust through the heart 
190 



Near the Throne 


and fell writhing upon the stones and in an instant 
the Arabian was dead. 

“ Vengeance ! ” shouted Marcel, pointing with 
one finger at his fallen enemy and holding up the 
gleaming steel. 

Then, seeing the danger he was in, the Chasseur 
picked up Sebah’s sword and threw it violently 
into the river. But Fuad, being left without any 
other arm, was already drawing his pistol. Balzar 
closed in upon him. They struggled fiercely for 
possession of the loaded weapon of death. The 
Mameluke got the soldier of France on his knees, 
but he held on with a grip of iron, then with one 
mighty wrench that wellnigh broke Fuad’s wrist 
he forced the pistol from the Egyptian’s grasp and 
threw him to the pavement. Marcel, realizing 
there was no time to lose, even though he seemed 
to be master, pointing to the dead man, said : 

“ He will make good food for fishes. Be quick — 
into the sack with him ! But first — the keys ! ” 

The sentinel appeared not to understand. 

Pointing below to the subterranean dungeons, 
Balzar added : “ Cell thirty one.” 

Fuad hesitated. 

“The keys,” repeated Marcel, “or,” raising the 
sword even with the Arab’s throat and drawing it 
with a hissing sound through the air. 

Fuad understood : he immediately got the de- 
sired and valuable pieces of metal from the cloth- 
191 


Near the Throne 


ing of the bleeding Mameluke and gave them to 
the victor. 

With the happiness of anticipation Marcel 
ejaculated : 

“ You are free, mother ! ” 

Together they put Sebah into the sack and car- 
ried it to the wall, Marcel saying : 

“His fortune is with the stars — they leave him 
to the crocodiles. My fortune is in my heart and 
the sabre of Aboukir ! ” 

As they climbed up by four projecting stones 
to the top of the wall and lifted the sack, Fuad, 
trembling for his own safety, said : 

“ Black night on the river.” 

“Yes,” answered Captain Balzar ominously, 
“and under it too!” Then looking into the 
blackness past the Palace, he said : “ The game, 
my Pasha — for your life or mine? You think 
you’ve killed me! But you’re wrong. For I 

live ” swinging the sack with the assistance of 

Fuad and tossing it into the river where the 
moonlight streamed — the loud splash being an- 
swered by the deceived Pasha’s pistol in the dis- 
tance — “ to win ! ” 

The terrified Mameluke could only slink down 
from the wall and look on in amazement at the 
daring figure outlined against the sky. In quick, 
confirmatory answer rang out Captain Balzar ’s shot : 

Ping ! 


192 


THIRD INTERLOGUE 


TWO DAYS HAVE ELAPSED 

The war of elements no fears impart 

To love, whose deadliest bane is human art: 

There lie the only rocks our course can check. 

— Lord Byron. 

The unseen is often the most potent. The 
mightiest forces do not come within the scope of 
human vision. And the powerful is the more to 
be dreaded when it is hidden, especially by those 
against whom it is directed with wrath guided by 
reason. For two days Marcel Balzar kept assidu- 
ously under cover; yet no man in Cairo was so 
active or occasioned the watchful Murad more 
concern. The rage of the Pasha knew no bounds 
when he heard of the escape of the Captain. Men 
on horses and camels were sent along the river and 
out on the desert, with promises of rich reward 
if they should bring back the head of Le Beau 
Sabreur. The hospitals were ransacked, the pyra- 
mids were searched. He could not be found. 
Murad had the gates guarded and went on with his 
secret preparations for the massacre, but was ever 
conscious of the danger from a daring foe within 
13 I 9 3 


Near the Throne 


a city. He had now grasped the sceptre of the 
Pharaohs. Announcing that he was the chosen 
servant of Mahomet, the new King vowed that no 
force in earth or heaven would wrench one jewel 
from his crown. The Egyptian felt sure the sol- 
dier of France must dread the light, yet he saw 
him with the avenging sabre of Aboukir in every 
shadow by day and by night — and realized that no 
stratagem would be left untried to get a message 
to Bonaparte which would bring the little Corsican 
back to drag the usurper from the throne. 



JSoofe tfoxxv 

TO SAVE A COUNTRY 









































CHAPTER I 


THE RIGHT TO HAPPINESS 

A chamber in the house of Hassan, furnished 
elaborately but used by the merchant as a count- 
ing room. 

The architecture that circular style distin- 
guished by the Moorish arch which renders so 
picturesque the more pretentious dwellings of med- 
iaeval and modern Egypt. 

The green tinted walls ornamented with quaint 
symbols in violet and gray, and draped with heavy 
silken hangings of rich yellow and softest red. 

In hollowed niches and on carven shelves rare 
treasures in stone and bronze of the splendid age 
of Seti and the less ancient but more brilliant 
epoch of Cleopatra. 

The hard wooden floor seen only here and there 
between the oriental rugs that accentuated the 
atmosphere of comfort and affluence. 

Near the centre of the room a table with a 
number of commercial papers and several piles of 
coin upon it, which Hassan was carefully counting 
and entering the amounts in a ledger. 

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Near the Throne 


Almost behind this to the right a latticed win- 
dow with a minaret seen through it and to the left 
a curving staircase near which were four tabarets 
inlaid with mother of pearl. 

Diagonally to the left the open door of iron to 
a vault, inside of which a candle was burning, 
casting its glimmer upon numerous small chests 
and bags of money. 

Straight across the room a curtained multifoil 
archway leading to a door swinging toward the 
street below. 

Hanging lamps suspended on fancy ropes shed- 
ding their soft and coloured glow over all the room ; 
and a burnished tripod surmounted by a brazier 
from which curled fragrant incense, spreading its 
aroma through the room. 

Just in front of the window with the moonlight 
flooding through it and tinging a divan, a number 
of pillows upon which reclined Nazira. Three 
Nubians fanning her. Nearby the Parisian gover- 
ness playing on a harp a French march. 

“No, not that, Lucine,” said Nazira. “ I am 
not merry today. ” 

The musician drifted into a waltz. But she had 
played only a few bars when Nazira said, raising 
herself to the window and looking out into the 
languorous night : 

“ Sing to me. Some music like the great world 
out there, dreamy and dark and beautiful.” 

198 


Near the Throne 

In her soft rich contralto the Provencal sang a 
serenade : 

‘ ‘ Wherefore should I pause to listen 
To yon birds of the grove, 

When the bird whose song is sweetest, 

Sings in thy voice, my love ! 

Though the stars were hidden, 

In yon azure skies, 

Brighter stars are shining, 

In thy earnest eyes ! 

‘ * Though April brings once more the flow’rs 
From out their earthly tomb, 

The flow’r whose perfume sweeter is 
In thy true heart doth bloom ; 

This bird thus like the phoenix, 

That bright star above, 

And the soul’s sweet blossom 
Have all one name, 'tis love ! 

“ Ah ! this blossom of the soul is call’d love! 

Yes, bird and star and blossom, 

Have all one name, 'tis Love, 

Yes, bird and star and blossom, 

Have all one name, ’tis Love ! ” 

Looking up from his papers, Hassan remarked : 

“Songs disturb me — when I’m busy.” 

“You may go, Lucine,” said the daughter, not 
wishing to trouble her father. 

Lucine went out by the staircase, followed by 
the three Nubians. 

“Five, ten, twenty, fifty, one hundred,” went 

199 


Near the Throne 


on Hassan, counting and lifting the appropriate 
piles of coins and putting them into one of the 
leathern receptacles. “ The last bag full. Silver. 
I wish it was ” 

“ Father.” 

“Just a minute,” said he, moving the bags over 
as he spoke. “ One hundred, two hundred, three, 
four, five. Yes, it is time you should be think- 
ing of marriage.” 

“ Not yet,” answered Nazira. 

“But be wise,” continued the merchant. 
“Choose well; be careful to secure gold.” 

With all his wisdom and skill in accumulation, 
this man forgot one thing — that truth which is 
written alike in guarded bank and perfumed bou- 
doir; clicking in every safe, rustling in every 
gown, sparkling in every diamond — that in the 
long run money always finds its way to a woman. 

“But, father,” the daughter answered, “it is 
not wealth I am seeking. It is happiness.” 

“ Happiness ! ” he exclaimed. 

“Yes,” she responded. 

“ Ah, you forget : the gates of paradise are built 
of gold, its streets are paved with gold, its ” 

“Then,” she interrupted, leaning on her elbows, 
“ I do not wish to go there.” 

“ I fear your association with foreigners has 
made you too much of a European.” 

“ Me ? ” she answered in astonishment. 


200 


Near the Throne 


“You, daughter!” 

“I am too proud to be of our own race,” she 
averred, sitting up. “ My blood is Coptic — so is 
my heart. I am a true Egyptian. ” 

Hassan was well pleased with this outburst. 
Nazira had come honestly by her temperament. 
Her father knew it, and even gloried in her in- 
heritance. 

“I have decided,” he said, “to give your hand 
in marriage.” 

“I am listening, father,” replied the girl with 
eagerness in her manner. 

“To one with whom union would mean fortune, 
fame, power.” 

“ Who?” 

“He was crowned yesterday. ” 

“Murad?” she inquired. 

“The King,” he answered hoping for reinforce- 
ment from the word. 

“I cannot marry him,” Nazira declared without 
hesitation. 

“Think what you’re saying.” 

“It is true,” she urged. 

“ Why can’t you ? ” 

“ I do not wish to.” 

“ But I want you to.” 

“It is impossible,” she protested. 

“ What ! ” the father said leaning forward across 
the table and amazed at his daughter’s rebellion. 

201 


Near the Throne 


“I have no desire to marry Murad.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ I will not.” 

“But I say you shall.” 

“ And I decline. I have said it ! ” 

“ I command you ! ” he ordered striking his 
hand upon the table. 

“Then I refuse!” she answered rising from 
the divan and turning upon him in passionate 
defiance. 

“Nazira! Am I not your father? Have I no 
rights?” 

“In all else I am your daughter,” she replied, 
totally disregarding the reprimand, “ dutiful, obe- 
dient — but when it comes to marriage, then I re- 
serve the right to dispose of my own heart.” 

Hassan walked away. “ Quite a tigress,” he 
thought. “ Perhaps she is not far wrong this 
time. The self-willed are often more than half 
right.” Returning he said very gently : “ Well, 
Nazira ” 

“Yes, father,” she said taking her tone from 
his. And there was patience with filial affection 
in every note of her voice. 

It cost Hassan much to make the statement, 
but with answering love he said : 

“ His name shall be banished from our home.” 

“Father,” Nazira responded putting her arms 
about his neck, “ how good you are ! ” 

202 


Near the Throne 

With her grateful eyes still looking into his, he 
continued : 

“ I had set my mind upon this alliance ; but I 



love you, my child, too well to bring any sorrow 
into your young life.” 

“ Now you are my own father.” 

As he walked toward the vault Hassan made 
no effort to avoid the reflection : “ How like her 
mother she looks.” Then turning to his child he 
said: “Nazira, you have your mother’s eyes, her 
hair ” 

“ Have I ? ” she asked, glad that the father saw 
203 


Near the Throne 


in her anything that reminded him of the wife he 
had loved so dearly. 

“And her smile,” he ran on. “And her tem- 
per. I had a picture of her — I haven’t been able 
to find it lately. Go, put on those robes I like to 
see you in — and the coronet. I gave it to your 
mother on her bridal day. I used to call her — 
Egypt. ” 

Nazira, anxious to grant her father’s slight- 
est wish, obeyed. “ I shall be back in a few min- 
utes,” she said disappearing up the staircase. But 
the girl stopped and looked back. Always now 
there was present in her unquiet mind the image 
of the Saracen, who desired her and whom she 
feared — Murad. 



CHAPTER II 


A MONK AND HIS MISSION 

When Nazira had passed from the room it was 
like the ceasing of a melody or the going out of a 
light. 

“ It would break my heart,” Hassan reminded 
himself, “if anything should happen to her. It 
looks as if a storm were coming,” he observed 
glancing out the window at the clouds drifting by, 
for northward down the river the sky looked very 
threatening. 

There was a knock at the door. 

“ Come in,” said Hassan drawing aside the 
curtains at the archway. 

Murad entered, taking the precaution to quietly 
lock the door after him. 

“Your Majesty,” said Hassan. “Good even- 
ing.” 

“ I am glad to see you,” was the answer. 

“ You have called ” 

“For two purposes. First, to learn if you are 
ready to make the proposed loan to our Govern- 
ment.” 

“ I am sorry that I am unable to do so,” replied 
205 


Near the Throne 


the merchant. “ I regret I have so much out at 
present in English securities that ” 

“ You have none for your own country? ” 

“Though it is not as I would wish, yet it is the 
fact.” 

“My second object,” resumed the usurper, 
“was to see if Osman has been here.” 

Hassan, perceiving at once the ulterior mean- 
ing of this remark, for he knew the purport of the 
astrologer’s visit, replied: 

“ The Bey said he would call tonight, but has 
not come yet.” 

“ Indeed ! ” 

“It is just as well, though.” 

“Why so?” 

“Because I fear I cannot grant his request.” 

“ What ! ” exclaimed Murad astonished beyond 
measure. 

“ That is my conclusion.” 

“ Have you considered all my ” 

“She is not for sale,” said the father with in- 
dignant determination. 

“ You affront me like this ! ” said Murad taking 
a menacing stride forward while Hassan retreated 
a step. 

“ No,” asserted Hassan, but without the slight- 
est apology in tone or manner. “ Nothing was 
further ” 

“ Fling my offer of marriage back in my face ! ” 
206 


Near the Throne 

the Saracen muttered, quickly advancing upon the 
man whose words assured him but whose eyes de- 
spised him. 

“ I beg of you that ’’ 

“ You insult me — the King ! ” 

Seizing the elder man by the shoulders and 
throat, Murad 
thrust him vio- 
lently into the 
vault. Hassan 
fell senseless 
upon the floor. 

“ Stu nned!” 
said the Moslem 
hoarsely, regard- 
ing the result of 
his anger. Then 
shutting the iron 
door, and shov- 
ing the bolt, he 
added: “ Let 

him smother ! ” 

There was a slight flash of lightning : the storm 
was approaching. Hearing a faint noise just out- 
side, Murad went hastily to the window. 

“ Osman ! ” he whispered to himself surprised, 
noting the old man was below. 

* Murad,” came in the voice of the astrologer. 
Then the young usurpe-r called low : “ Osman ! ” 
207 



Near the Throne 


“ I am waiting.’’ 

Going quickly to the table, Murad looked hur- 
riedly through the papers with the evident inten- 
tion of seeing if there was anything among them 
of value to himself, and of returning to the customs 
of the Mamelukes — taking by force the loan that 
had been refused on request. Picking up two 
documents with large blue seals upon them he 
read the first : “ Thirty days after date ? Too long 
to wait,” he said in disgust tearing it in half and 
throwing away the pieces. “ Sixty days ! ” he 
read on the second. “Worse and more of it.” 
Then seizing a bag of coin he walked to the 
window saying : “ Osman, catch ! ” 

“ Ready ! ” came in the voice of the Bey. 

Murad threw it. There was a sound of scatter- 
ing coins on the pavement below. The bag had 
broken. 

“Spread your cloak!” suggested Murad, re- 
turning to the door of the vault and listening be- 
fore drawing the bolt. He opened it slowly. 

Hassan was lying on the floor unconscious. 
This was Murad’s opportunity. He took it — 
and also a number of bags of gold from the shelves 
and threw them out the window to Osman. They 
would serve as part reprisal to replenish his coffers. 
There was no sound : they were caught and con- 
veyed safely and immediately to the Palace of 
Saladin. 


20 8 


Near the Throne 


“ Balzar has a pretty taste in poniards,” remarked 
Murad drawing Marcel’s from his belt and sitting 
down — “that’s a beauty.” 

“Father,” came gently from the staircase. 

“That’s a beauty, too!” he repeated turning 
in the direction of the voice. 

“ Father ! ” 

“Nazira!” he said to himself, rising in his in- 
terest and brushing a paper over the weapon on 
the table in his eagerness to close the door of the 
vault. Having done this he removed his cloak 
and sat down again. 

“Are you waiting, father? ” said the girl com- 
ing into the room radiant and regal in the jewelled 
robes and the gleaming coronet. Not seeing 
Hassan and observing Murad and his attitude, 
she at once demanded : “ What have you done 
with him ? ” 

“ I ? With whom ? ” he said feigning bewilder- 
ment and rising to his feet with the grace of a 
courtier. He motioned her to be seated. 

“With my father,” she replied. 

“ Nothing. He went out. ” 

“ Where?” 

“Hassan said he would be back in a few min- 
utes and asked me to wait.” 

“Had I known you were here,” answered 
Nazira in doubt whether or not to believe this 
assertion, but quite certain that she ought and 
14 209 


Near the Throne 


desired to be away from the presence of this man, 
“ I should not have intruded.” 

“You need not go,” he said in an entreating 
way, and moving toward her. 

But she replied simply: “You will pardon 
my- ” 

“Come, Nazira,” he interrupted— “ you are 
always so cold and those lips are so tempting.” 

He tried to put his brutish arms about her. 
She had noticed the handle of the poniard be- 
neath the papers on the table. Wresting herself 
away from him the girl picked the weapon up and 
clutching it tightly said, fixing him with her furi- 
ous flashing eyes : 

“Do not touch me, Murad! Or I’ll— — ” 

“You? ” he laughed grasping her uplifted wrist 
and with the other hand twisting the poniard 
roughly from her weaker fingers and throwing it 
disdainfully on the floor. “ You could not.” 

“ Father ! ” she called divining his purpose. 

“ He can’t hear you,” retorted the King closing 
the lattice of the window near which they were — 
man and woman alone together. 

“Marcel!” she screamed struggling to free 
herself from his embrace. 

“ Monsieur Balzar is dead,” said Murad, his face 
close to hers and her warm breath setting his 
blood afire. 

“ Dead? ” she cried. “ I see him ! ” 


210 


Near the Throne 


“ Oh, no ! I saw him thrown into the Nile — 
two nights ago. ” 

He tried to press his feverish lips to» hers. 

“ Marcel — Marcel ! ” she shrieked again in de- 
spair. 

There was a knock at the door, but neither 
heard it. 

“ O Nazira ” 

A second knock ! 

“Who’s there?” questioned Murad infuriated. 

A Carthusian monk burst open the lock and 
entered the room. Throwing back his hood and 
stepping quickly between the two, he said : 

. “ It is I ! ” 

“ Balzar ! ” exclaimed Murad. 

“Your Nemesis ! ” was the Captain’s reply. 

“ You ! ” said Murad. “ Alive ? ” 

“Very much alive. Does it trouble you? ” 

The strain being over, Nazira relaxed in a faint 
on the divan. But neither of the men observed 
her. 

“The last time I saw you,” resumed Murad, 
“you were in the clothes that fit you best — those 
of a beggar, a rascal ! ” 

“I had the rascal’s coat,” replied Marcel — “but 
you — you had the rascal’s heart ! ”v 

“So you’re still spying?” asked the Egyptian 
crowding a query and an accusation into one 
sentence. 


2 I I 



A Carthusian monk burst open the lock and entered the room 


Near the Throne 


“ No!” 

“ Still intriguing to upset my plans? ” 

“ Yes!” 

“ The plans of the King ! ” 

“ No — of a traitor ! ” 

“Monsieur!” 

“What the devil else would you have me do? ” 



“ Remain in the city. Attempt to leave — and 
my Mamelukes will shoot you on sight ! ” 

Turning away from his foe for a moment, Balzar 
noticed Nazira ill or wounded and at once went to 
her assistance. 

“ By Allah ! ” muttered the usurper, as the wind 
howled like a loosened spirit of evil and he went 
213 


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out into the night. “I’ll begin the massacre with 
Balzar ! ” 

And the Chasseur said, looking after the Ara- 
bian : 

“ Murad, you shall buy dearly the tears you 
have made her shed.” 



CHAPTER III 


INTO THE TRAP 

“Nazira,” whispered Marcel anxiously, discov- 
ering her arm was bleeding. 

The delicate flesh had been grazed by the pon- 
iard in the struggle. The Captain tied his hand- 
kerchief around the wound as a first precaution. 
Then he heard a noise in the vault. What was 
it? Who could be there imprisoned? He drew 
back the bolt — there was Hassan on his knees as 
if he had been trying to open the lock from within. 

Though still weak from the harsh treatment he 
had been subjected to and the brief confinement 
he had endured, the merchant managed to struggle 
to his feet. 

“You here?” he said angrily to Balzar. 
“ This is my house.” 

“Permit me to explain,” responded Marcel. 

“And I order you to leave it at once,” con- 
tinued Hassan ignoring the courteous request. 

“ Will you not allow me to ” 

P'or reply the incensed Egyptian pointed per- 
emptorily to the door, saying : 

“ At once ! ” 


2I 5 


Near the Throne 


No self-respecting man could disregard such 
contumely unless he wished to resent it. This, 
under the circumstances, the physician had no de- 
sire to do. So Marcel simply looked at the in- 



sulter, smiled, bowed politely — and left the room 
without a word. 

“He must have tried to force her,” reasoned 
Hassan, seeing the dishevelled state his daughter 
was in. 

She turned over wearily. 

Then he called : 

“ Lucine ! Tinette ! ” 

The governess and the maid came in immedi- 
ately. 


216 


Near the Throne 


“ Run for a doctor, quickly ! ” said the dis- 
tressed father to them. 

Mademoiselle Fleury obeyed 

“My poor Nazira,” moaned Lucine stroking 
her mistress’s forehead. 

“ Some water ! ” ordered Hassan. 

Lucine went to one of the tabarets to bring it. 

“ Bleeding ! ” exclaimed the father noticing his 
child’s arm. “The scoundrel ! ” 

“Who did it? ” asked Lucine pouring the wa- 
ter from a pitcher into a goblet. 

Hassan did not take the time to answer, but 
gently moistened his daughter's lips and brow. 
Picking up the stained poniard and looking closely 
at the blade and hilt, his suspicions were con- 
firmed : 

“ With blood on it — and a name — Balzar.” 

“This is his handkerchief,” added Lucine ex- 
amining the initials on the corner and hoping in 
an unobtrusive way to furnish her master with 
what seemed to be at least a partial refutation of 
his conclusion. 

“ Oh ! ” gasped Nazira returning to conscious- 
ness under her father’s tender ministrations. 

Throwing the poniard aside, smoothing his 
daughter’s hair with one hand and studying the 
handkerchief in the other, Hassan changed his 
opinion and agreed with Lucine ’s thoughts, saying: 

“ It was Murad ! ” 


217 


Near the Throne 


Just then Tinette came back and announced : 

“ The physician across the way is out, but I 
noticed Monsieur le Docteur Balzar going to his 
office.” 

Neither Hassan nor those of his household knew 



anything of what had happened the night before 
last on the wall in front of the Palace of Saladin. 

“ I will not have him,” replied the Copt, averse 
to the slightest attempt at persuasion. 

But just a sigh issued from Nazira’s parted lips 
as he accidentally touched the wound on her out- 
stretched arm. 

“ She is suffering,” said Lucine. 

218 


Near the Throne 

“ I must get someone,” the perplexed father 
decided. 

“The pain,” breathed Nazira. 

“I’ll go,” Hassan resolved noticing with relief 
that his daughter was falling into a gentle sleep as 
Lucine fanned her. “If I send Balzar, ” he con- 
tinued, “remain in the room, both of you. There 
must be no conversation between him and Nazira.” 

He started slowly for the door, but stopped be- 
fore reaching the archway — turned back, as if he 
had resolved not to call Marcel, no matter what 
might be the cost. But he looked at Nazira, a 
fond solicitous look; then putting aside all his 
personal prejudices and racial pride, he went out 
with a firm step. 

Nazira, now comfortably reposing on the cush- 
ions of the soft divan and with a restful far away 
smile on her countenance such as limners give to a 
sleeping beauty, was apparently in some distant 
and peaceful dreamland. 

As her father crossed the street he little thought 
that he was on an errand that would bring Cap- 
tain Balzar back to a trap. 



CHAPTER IV 


FROM THE FLOWER TO THE HEART 

Lucine, concluding that her mistress did not 
need her immediate care, joined Tinette at the 
window where she had been watching the ap- 
proaching storm. 

“ Lucine,” said the maid, “ I haven’t seen you 
to speak to since yesterday. ” 

“ I wish,” answered the Provencal abstractedly. 
“ I didn’t think of him so often.” 

“Him! What him? ” 

“Tinette, what is a good thing to help a girl to 
forget a man ? ” 

“Another man,” was the prompt and laughing 
solution offered with a kiss. 

“ You’re a true Parisienne. ” 

“ Why, you’re engaged to be married ! ” 

“ How do you know ? ” 

“ By the way you kiss.” 

“ Antoinette ! ” 

“ Who is he ? ” 

“ Can’t you guess ? ” 

“ Monsieur Carmier? ” 

“ Don’t tell. ” 


220 


Near the Throne 


“ Girls never do.” 

“ I think it was very unfair of Hassan to dis- 
charge him.” 

“So do I,” acquiesced Tinette, “without any 
reason.” 

“ I think it was because he knows Monsieur 
Balzar. ” 

“I wish,” confided the maid, “that I’d bought 
a parasol yesterday before this rain began.” 

“ Can’t you buy one yet ? ” 

“Yes, but parasols are up today. Isn’t it 
fearful ? ” 

“ What ? ” 

“The large number of blacklegs in Cairo.” 

This, or rather these, the ingenuous Lucine did 
not see. 

“ I wonder,” she mused interrogatively, “what 
it’s like to be married? ” 

“I don’t know,” confessed her companion. 
“But I’m sure I couldn’t bear to be neglected.” 

“ Nor I. It must be awful if your husband 
never comes home when you expect him.” 

“But,” the vivacious Mademoiselle Fleury ven- 
tured, “ not so bad as to have him come home 
when you don’t expect him.” 

“Tinette!” exclaimed Lucine quite shocked. 
“You say such naughty things — and I know you 
don’t mean them. I must see if the children 
want anything.” 


Near the Throne 


As Mademoiselle Chaumont left the room Ti- 
nette went again to the window — a tempestuous 
night had for her a fascination. 

“I wish the stars were out,” she said following 
the course of the bluish streaks of electric splendour 
and listening to the rumble of the distant thunder. 
“I’m almost afraid of all this lightning.” 

So intent was the maid that she did not notice 
Worda draw aside the curtains slowly and come 
silently into the chamber. 

“I am sure,” the young Egyptian reasoned with 
herself, “ Nazira wants to be absolutely certain. 
And I am going to tell her the truth.” 

Her sister was still lying on the divan. A float- 
ing end of drapery hid the wounded arm. 

“Sleeping,” Worda whispered crossing over 
and marking the sweet slumber. Kissing Nazira 
she lisped one lingering word: “Sister.” Then 
she went quickly to the table, and picking up a 
quill scratched a few words quickly on a piece of 
paper. “There,” she said with a satisfied inflec- 
tion as she finished. Returning to the divan and 
gently placing the note in Nazira’s bosom the 
faithful little exile breathed wistfully : “ Happy 
dreams ! ” 

Lighter of heart than she had been for weeks 
Worda started for the door but had taken scarcely 
four steps when she succumbed to the temptation 
to kiss her sister again, so she slipped to her side, 
222 


Near the Throne 


and kneeling touched her lips to Nazira’s brow, 
for fear of waking her. Then gathering her robe 
about her she started in good earnest, but on 
reaching the arch paused. “Someone coming,” 
she said in caution to herself, thinking she heard 



footsteps and running across and out of the room 
into the vault. She extinguished the candle and 
drew the door shut after her in order to be safely 
concealed. 

Just as the young girl disappeared Balzar, having 
knocked in vain at the outer door, entered, and 
Antoinette came forward from her rapt contempla- 
223 

« 


Near the Throne 


tionof the storm. The maid inferred immediately 
that Hassan had summoned the physician. 

“An hour’s rest,” remarked the doctor compre- 
hending the case exactly from his own knowledge 
and Hassan’s explanations, “and I think the pa- 
tient will be quite well. Antoinette, would you 
mind bringing a glass of water? ” 

The Parisienne thought she understood more 
than these bare words expressed and felt the inner 
meaning of Marcel’s desire. A woman knows 
when to trust her intuitions. Tinette went for 
the water — with every intention of taking some 
time to bring it. 

“Though the hope that is in one’s heart,” 
mused Marcel, “ sometimes sends a falsehood to 
the mind, I know our romance is not over yet, for 
our love was the truest.” 

Almost falling from out the embroidery at 
Nazira’s bosom was a faded flower. As Marcel 
saw it, and the gloom of the past came upon his 
mind once more just as the darkness comes over 
the sea, he said mournfully : 

“ The last rose.” 

And he heard Lucine singing to the soft ac- 
companiment of lutes in a room near by that 
plaintive Egyptian melody whose strains were 
borne to him that unfortunate day he tried to per- 
suade Worda to return home. 

Recalling an autumn in the North — the pathos 
224 


Near the Throne 


in the music — it sounded like the lament of a soul. 
But he had not seen all yet, for beneath the dead 
leaves there is always something hidden. Another 
glance revealed a ring down among the withered 
petals and it seemed to send him a golden ray of 
sunlight. Breathing more quickly and taking it 
slowly with all its sweet memories coming back 
to him, he lifted the tiny circlet to his lips and 
held it there a moment wondering how faithfully 
it had carried back the message from his heart to 
hers. 

“ Ah ! ” sighed Nazira as she lay dreaming. 

“She speaks,” he said. 

“ Marcel ! ” she breathed. 

“ Of me.” 

“ I despise him. He betrayed my sister.” 

“Those are not your words, Nazira,” begged 
Marcel taking her hand and kneeling beside her. 

“I must forget him,” she sobbed, and the tears 
in her voice told all the grief of her heart and all 
the anguish of her soul. 

“Those words were taught you,” entreated 
Balzar in despair — “they must have been.” 

“Why did he not try to explain,” her distracted 
mind wandered on. “ Father, there is some mis- 
take. I am sure there is. I love him ! ” 

Those three words, the syllables Marcel had 
longed for — and he had lived to hear Nazira speak 
them once again. To him they were worth years 
15 22 5 


Near the Throne 


of heaven ; and he would have given it all to kiss 
her now, but feared to waken her. 

Just then Lucine and Tinette came into the 
room with a fresh pitcher of water. Their foot- 
steps aroused their mistress from her sleep. Bal- 
zar was behind her, standing motionless and silent 
by the curtains at the window. Not turning she 
did not see him. 

“1 like to hear you sing, Lucine,” the Egyptian 
said sitting up and drinking from the goblet the 
maid poured and offered her. “Ah,” she sighed, 
“ I feel so tired.” 

The Provencal offered her arm. 

Leaning upon it Nazira went up the staircase, 
preceded by Antoinette — and followed by Marcel’s 
eyes aglow with hope and adoration. 



CHAPTER V 


A LITTLE TROOPER 

As the sound of their garments died away the 
door of the vault stealthily opened. A slight 
creak of one of the hinges reached Balzar’s alert 
ears and he saw the form of a girl steal cautiously 
out. 

“ Worda ! ” he exclaimed. 

“Marcel! ” she answered running over to him. 

“ I have news,” he said at once, wasting no time 
on preliminaries because aware of the need for 
wise and prompt action. 

“ From Bonaparte ? ” 

“A cypher despatch.” 

“ Yes?” 

“ Came two days ago. He’s hastening back to 
Cairo by forced marches.” 

“ But the massacre ? ” 

“ I know — at midnight. ” 

“ Not far off — and Murad’s soldiers are gather- 
ing already.” 

“Where? ” inquired the Captain. 

“ At the Palace, the Citadel, around the mosques 

in all quarters of the city. ” 

227 


Near the Throne 

Balzar thought an instant. Then throwing aside 
his Carthusian scapula and habit, he took out his 
watch and said : 

“ In less than two hours the great bell in the 
dome of the Citadel will strike twelve.” 

“ The signal,” Worda reminded him. “ What is 
to be done ? ” 

“ We must send word to Napoleon — to hasten 
or all is lost. ” 

“But you can’t go, Marcel.” 

“Why not?” 

“How long would your mother live,” the girl 
reasoned, “ if the usurper finds that you have 
gone? Is she not in prison? ” 

“ Oh, no ! I got the keys.” 

“ You did?” 

“From Sebah — then unlocked the door of cell 
thirty one. My mother is now at the house of a 
friend.” 

“But,” Worda argued, “you can’t speak our 
language. It will be difficult for you to pass the 
sentinels.” 

“You’re right — impossible,” he submitted. 
“They’re watching for me by this time. They’ve 
been searching for my mother these two days. ” 

“Then,” maintained the girl, “it is your duty 
to remain. Someone else must go. An Egyp- 
tian.” 

“There is none.” 


228 


Near the Throne 



“Yes. There is one.” 

“ Who?” 

“ Send me.” 

“You, Worda?” replied Marcel. 

“Why not?” 

“ Send you ? ” 

“Certainly,” she answered pluckily and as if 


she were surprised at his astonishment. “ Me ! ” 

“ It would not be safe for a girl to go." 

“ Like this,” she agreed throwing open her arms 
and looking down at her clothes — “of course not.” 

Perceiving her meaning and her questioning 
resolve, Marcel said without comment or further 
question: “ You’ll do it ? ” 

229 


Near the Throne 


“ Where can I find a suit? ” she asked in reply, 
glancing at his Chasseur uniform. 

“In my surgery across the street,” he re- 
sponded. 

Worda was already in the archway. 

“ It was made for a lieutenant in my own regi- 
ment. ” 

“Where is it? ” she asked impatiently. 

“ Hanging in the closet. ” 

“ And a horse? Where can I find a horse? ” 

“ My black Arabian’s tied to the surgery door. ” 

“Just a minute,” she said and ran blithely out. 

“Marcel,” cried a child’s voice from the stair- 
way; and a second later Halima tripping down, 
exclaimed as she entered : “You here ? ” 

“ Ah, Halima ! ” said he greeting her. 

“I haven’t seen you for a long time,” ran cn 
the little one as the Captain sat down and put his 
arm around her and she nestled close to his side, 
“and I've been wanting to so much.” 

“ Have you?” 

“ Yes.' 

There was a rumble of thunder. 

“I'm afraid!” cried the child hiding her head 
in Marcel’s breast as he stroked her glossy hair. 

“ I wouldn’t let it touch you, Halima,” he as- 
sured her. 

“And you don’t come to see Nazira any more, 
do you? ” she said regaining confidence. 

230 


Near the Throne 


“ I should like to, though." 

“ You look so sad, Marcel." 

“I was just thinking," he said smiling, “how 
happy we all might be if — if " 

“I’m so fond of you, Marcel," the child re- 
sponded climbing upon his knee. “ Ali and I 
were just talking about you. JBut you did not 
hear us, did you ? " 

“ How could I ? " he laughed. 

“And Ali likes you too, Marcel. Tonight 
when Lucine put him in his cradle he cried : 
‘ Wants to see Marcel ! Wants to see Marcel ! ” 
And then he fell over and went to sleep, and be- 
gan to dream — dream — dream. And such a pretty 
smile came over his little face. So I suppose he’s 
dreaming about you, Marcel. You’re so good and 
kind to him and me.” 

“ Halima ! ’’ called the governess. 

“I’m coming, Lucine!" answered the child. 
Then kissing her sister s lover, the little one 
added: “Goodnight, Marcel." 

“Goodnight, Halima," he replied kissing her 
again — perhaps for the sake of Nazira, “you’re 
like a ray of sunlight." 

“ Goodnight ! ’’ she repeated and ran away. 

The same instant the curtains at the archway 
were drawn quickly aside and a flash of lightning 
shone brightly on the form of Worda, making the 
prettiest boy the eyes could wish for as she stood 
231 


Near the Throne 


there as if on parade in the uniform of a lieutenant 
of the Twentieth Chasseurs. 

“ How will this do?” she asked with that 
sweet pride in her figure which every girl feels 
and denies. 

“ Capital ! ” declared Captain Balzar. 

“But these?” queried Worda standing there 
helplessly in a pair of sandals with her pretty 
limbs encased in the thongs, and holding up the 
leggins as well as the riding boots she had brought 
from the surgery. “ What shall I do with them ? ” 

“ Put them on, ” Balzar promptly answered, 
omitting the opportunity to be facetious though 
appreciating the humour of his position. 

“ Which?” 

“The boots.” 

“But how?” the girl inquired. “I’ve tried. 
They won t go on.” 

“ Make them. ” 

“ I can’t. What am I to do ? ” 

“You heard what Taschereau said to Tinette? ” 

“ Yes, the old reprobate.” 

“Well?” the Captain questioned, waiting for 
her to decide. 

Worda hesitated. 

“ Let me help you put them on,” he urged. 

“If there’s no other way — well, be quick!” 
she said throwing the leggins down and reluct- 
antly putting her foot up. 

232 


Near the Throne 

So Marcel knelt and lent his assistance to com- 
plete the uniform. And it must be admitted that 
for over a minute his was a duty that no man 
would find onerous. First he had to take her 
shoes off, next pull 
the refractory boots 
on. 

“ They make my 
ankles look thick ! ” 
she objected. 

“ Riding boots 
always do. ” 

“Oh! That’s 
different ! ” 

“ Now then for 
Napoleon ! ” 

“I have the 
horse/’ she broke in 
exultingly. 

“Good!” he 
agreed. “ Once out of the city and all’s well ! ” 

“ But to get out,” she said aware of the problem 
and its dangers. 

Catching sight of Murad’s forgotten cloak, 
Marcel exclaimed : “ The very thing — until you 
get beyond the gates.” 

Worda quickly threw it around her. 

And there was the Captain’s own poniard lying 
where the cloak had been an effective covering. 

233 



Near the Throne 


“And this? ” the girl ejaculated. 

“Use it,” he suggested placing the weapon in 
her belt, “ if the moment comes.” 

Neither surmised how ominous was this cau- 
tion — nor how soon that moment was ordained to 
arrive as a link in the restless chain of destiny 
that no man can break nor any human ear perceive 
its avenging rattle. 

Feeling in the pockets of the cloak as he fast- 
ened the clasps about the shoulders of the charm- 
ing young officer, Marcel made a discovery and 
an exclamation : 

“ A blank pass ! That will satisfy the sentinels. ” 

Wordawas certainly well equipped: armed with 
a passport from the King and disguised in an Egyp- 
tian cloak until she passed the soldiers of Murad, 
then a uniform that would at once command recog- 
nition as soon as she reached the lines of the 
army of France. 

Balzar sat down at Hassan’s table and drew out 
of a drawer a small sheet of paper. 

Worda, yielding as any girl would to such a 
temptation, went over to the mirror and spreading 
the cloak out said : 

“ I wonder where this was made ? ” 

Balzar wrote rapidly. 

Glancing down her figure displayed in the uni- 
form, her knees trembling a bit and her eyes 
growing larger, just as Marcel, hearing the clank 

234 


Near the Throne 


of a sword and turning his head quickly, saw his 
courier engaged in that feminine and pardonable 
occupation, Worda admitted to him: “These feel 
so funny.” 

Taking a moment more to add his signature and 
to dust some powder on the ink, Captain Balzar 
folded the paper and rose from the table. 

“ Are you ready? ” he said. 

“ Is my hat on straight ? ” Worda asked. 

“Perfectly. Don’t stop until this letter,” Mar- 
cel continued giving it to Worda, “ is in the hands 
of Bonaparte himself.” 

“These are good spurs,” she replied stamping 
her foot to make them jingle. 

“Now then,” he proceeded, wishing her all 
speed and good fortune as she ran to the door — 
“ swifter than the wind ! ” 

“For liberty and glory,” she replied. “Oh, 
I’ll ride like the devil ! ” 

And the girl without a fear dashed into the 
night. 

Hastening to the window and concealing him- 
self in the draperies, Marcel watched Worda cross 
the street, mount his Arabian and gallop off into 
the darkness and the storm — to serve a sister and 
to save a country. He could not restrain the ad- 
miring reflection : 

“You may depend upon a woman to be brave 
when the time comes. ” 


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Near the Throne 

The clattering hoofs were vanishing in the 
black distance. 

Balzar looked after the little trooper and knew 
she was putting the spurs to the horse. She was 
nearing the gates now. A doubt entered his mind. 
Yet he felt confident that she would safely pass 
the sentinels. But he could not banish that doubt. 



CHAPTER VI 


THE SEAL OF FIRE 

Captain Balzar peering intently into the black- 
ness as if it would aid him to devise and ma- 
ture some further plan, was quite oblivious to 
the almost noiseless entrance of Monsieur Tasche- 
reau from the street and of Tinette down the 
staircase. 

“ Have you seen Captain Balzar?” asked the 
physician’s clerk of Mademoiselle Fleury. 

“Not for three weeks,” she fibbed, and added 
with assumed and mischievous petulance: “Nor 
you either. ” 

“He left the house to come here. I want to 
find him. Murad’s soldiers are after him.” 

“Well,” the maid admitted, “he was here a few 
minutes ago.” 

“Where is he now? ” 

“ Gone,” she replied. “ Find him, quickly ! ” 

Taschereau was already several yards in the way 
of obedience, but he turned back and taking the 
girl’s hands said: 

“You’re pretty enough to kiss.” 

“ Don’t you dare ! ” she cried. 

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Near the Throne 

But he tried the more. Where is the man who 
wouldn’t ? 

“ I’ll scream,” she responded. 

“Sapristi! Don’t,” he cautioned her, tighten- 
ing his tricolour sash. “ Somebody might hear 
you.” 

“ I never thought of that,” the arch Parisienne 
replied, as if mingling a confession with an an- 
nouncement. 

Plutarque gave her a good hug and a second 
kiss for keeping him waiting, and then ran out to 
find the refugee and warn him while he thought it 
was yet time. 

Tinette had not the slightest intention of going 
an inch with him, but hearing her master’s foot- 
steps, disappeared immediately after the revolu- 
tionist — then came in through the curtains of the 
archway at the same time that Hassan came down 
the stairs with Nazira, supported by the faithful 
Provencal, who led her charge to the divan. 

“ How is the patient? ” inquired the solicitous 
father in a low voice of the physician, as Monsieur 
Balzar held aside the portieres. 

Hassan and Lucine had been careful to stand 
between Marcel and Nazira, so that she had neither 
seen him nor heard the question — as was her par- 
ent’s intention. 

“I feel so much better now,” said Nazira. “I 
like to lie in this room, father.” 

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“She answers for herself,” replied the doctor. 
“ I shall return in the morning.” 

“It may not be necessary. I shall let you 
know.” 

“Then for the present,” said the physician, 
bowing and retiring as though he had not noticed 
the unrelenting sternness of the merchant, “ I take 
my leave. ” 

But as he drew aside the curtains in the arch- 
way, there stood — Murad. 

And a flash of lightning illumined the room. 

“You see, Balzar,” said the King with that 
mocking smile of his, “ I have done you the honour 
of coming for you myself.” 

Instantly Marcel’s right hand was on the hilt 
of his sabre. He realized that once again face to 
face with his foe, he had little more to lose, ex- 
cept his life — and everything to gain. 

But Murad no sooner saw the first movement of 
Marcel’s wrist than he sounded a shrill whistle. 
It echoed through the shrieking wind. And as 
the thunder rolled along the sky, two Mamelukes 
appeared at each doorway and two more at the 
window — eight of them in all. It was nine men 
against one, for his two companions were unarmed 
and were not fighters. So the soldier of France 
bowed to the inevitable — and to the usurper — 
with the politeness of a courtier of Louis XIII. 
and said with the suavity of Talleyrand : 

239 


Near the Throne 


“ I appreciate the honour, I assure your Majesty.” 
“ You escaped me once,” retorted the Saracen. 
“ I have determined not to give you the chance 
again.” 

“You are kind, Sire,” acquiesced the surgeon. 
Upon entering Murad had seen lying on the 



divan the woman he so intensely desired. Now 
he missed her. She had crossed over unseen that 
she might be sheltered. 

“Where is Nazira? ” he demanded. 

“She is here,” replied Captain Balzar “ be- 

hind my sword ! ” 

Then Murad gave an order to his soldiers : 

“ Arrest them all.” 


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The three men and the three women were placed 
in the line of arrest, and Fuad held out his hand 
to receive the surrender of Captain Balzar’s sword. 

“I knew, Monsieur,” continued Murad, “you 
were fond of high living — so the jailer has pro- 
vided some very choice game for your supper, to 
be served with paper sauce. ” 

The last two words came with such contemptu- 
ous sarcasm that Balzar started back. 

Addressing his minion, Murad said : 

“ Permit Monsieur to see the bird.” 

Fuad handed a dead Antwerp to Balzar. The 
blood was clotted on its dun feathers. 

“ You recognize the pigeon? ” asked Murad. 

“The carrier!” exclaimed Balzar — a flood of 
horrible possibilities crowding his brain. 

“ Fuad is a very good shot,” remarked Murad. 

Looking at the paper Balzar added beneath his 
breath : 

“ And my note to Napoleon ! ” 

“ You sent another messenger also,” went on 
the usurper. “ But it is dangerous to try to de- 
ceive our sentinels. Two of the best marksmen 
shot the little trooper as he,” repeating the pro- 
noun with a sneer, — “ as he galloped through the 
gates.” 

“ Can it be true ? ” begged Balzar. 

Ignoring the question and proceeding, the King 
asked, holding up the mantle torn as though in a 
16 241 



“ You have seen the cloak before?” 


/ 


Near the Throne 


struggle: “You have seen the cloak before?” 
Then showing the paper, he added: “And this 
passport ? ” 

Furious at thought of the cruelty Murad was 
exulting over, Balzar broke in : 

“ You killed ” 

“ Silence ! ” shouted the tyrant, his scowl con- 
veying to Marcel the consideration that .this was 
neither the time nor the manner for Hassan to be 
informed of the fate which had befallen Worda. 

Marcel obeyed. 

Turning to Fuad the King gave order : 

“ Take the prisoners to the Citadel. Their trial 
will take place just before midnight.” 

It seemed to the Captain that every effort to 
send word to Napoleon had been futile — and fateful. 

Then to the Chasseur Murad continued : 

“ As for you, Balzar, you need not remain in 
doubt — the Nile! For sure this time.” 

“Murad,” replied Marcel undaunted, “you can 
pursue me, you can put me in irons — but you can- 
not kill me.” 

“By Allah!” laughed the King. “My word 
will do it, a wave of my hand.” 

“ No ! You cannot, with all your power ! ” 

“You seem confident.” 

Captain Balzar answered quietly with a deep 
and subtle meaning which a sudden intense gleam 
of lightning appeared to accentuate : 

243 


Near the Throne 


“ I have a great trust to fulfil.” 

“Well,” returned the Egyptian, “we shall see 
about that.” 

“Yes, Sire: — you spoke the truth that time!” 
And a peal of thunder crashed, as if powers 



above the earth were in sympathy with the veiled 
prediction. 

“ Balzar, the next time you meet me, it will be 
near the throne.” 

“ No — Napoleon is king.” 

“ Of what?” 

“Egypt.” 

“Who crowned him? ” 

“ Conquest ! ” 

244 


Near the Throne 

And the thunder rattled and rumbled along 
the sky like the cannon of the army of France. 
Everyone present seemed to hear again the roar 
of the guns of the little Corsican. 

“ Monsieur,’’ resumed Murad. 

“Your Majesty,” answered Balzar, making 
obeisance, apparently in deferential interruption, 
but really in scornful contempt. 

“ Everything is against you — even the storm.” 

“ But it shall turn against you.” 

Another and more deafening thunderbolt was 
taken by some of the prisoners as the confirming 
of this daring fulmination. 

“ Who will make it do so ? ” asked the King. 

“I will.” 

“ You! Ha, ha! ” was Murad’s Satanic sneer. 

“ Yes, I — by the aid of heaven ! ” 

“ Heaven ! Ha, ha, ha ! ” repeated the Egyptian 
with more contempt in his mocking laugh. 

“ And Napoleon ! ” replied Captain Balzar, add- 
ing as the lightning forked with portentous fierce- 
ness : “ They fight together ! God and the heavy 
artillery ! ” A sharp tremendous crack of thunder 
shot out and in the moment’s pause Marcel went 
on : “ They will tear from your heart that to 

which you have forfeited the right.” 

“What?” demanded Murad, not immediately 
perceiving the meaning of this ambiguous and 
threatening boast. 


245 


Near the Throne 


But Balzar’s quick reply made every doubt 
vanish as he tore the decoration from the Egyp- 
tian’s breast : 

“The Cross of the Legion of Honour! ” 

As the words left his lips three terrific chains 
of flame dashed through the black sky accom- 
panied by a direful glare of supernatural light and 
a triple crash of thunder. It seemed as if the ele- 
ments were commencing to bombard a world — 
booming and blazing forth the league against that 
monstrous usurper, with the seal of fire ! 



FOURTH INTERLOGUE 


ONE HOUR HAS ELAPSED 

Come, fill the cup, and in the fire of spring 
The winter garments of repentance fling : 

The bird of time has but a little way 
To fly — and lo — the bird is on the wing. 

— Omar Khayyam. 

Just after and just preceding a time of intense 
action there is in the affairs of men, as on the sea, 
a brief space of simple waiting. But the smooth- 
ness of the waves and the normal movement of 
the tide merely emphasize the turmoil that has 
gone and seem to gather force for the storm that 
is to come. Power may be latent, but as it is 
never lost so it is never idle : somewhere it is al- 
ways the servant of a creator or the slave of a de- 
stroyer. Both Balzar and Murad, having exerted 
themselves to the utmost for the accomplishment 
of their opposite purposes, were resting from their 
work and submitting to the temporary calm — one 
knowing and the other fearing that it was only 
for a little while that the tempest had subsided. 
Balzar’s faith in himself and his destiny did not 
desert him even in his darkest moments, and he 
247 


Near the Throne 


firmly believed that if this was the hour of his 
final breath he would yet be able to bring about 
the punishment and death of the two still remain- 
ing as a curse to the earth of the three murderers. 
He had a mighty motive and it was an irresistible 
inspiration : to win the woman he loved, to serve 
the General he honoured and to save a kingdom. 
Murad, having completed with consummate ability 
every detail of his diabolic plan, was possessed 
with a feeling that in very truth he was at last 
the monarch absolute of all Egypt — and, filled 
with dreams of becoming emperor of the Orient, 
he occupied this one short hour by complacently 
waiting for the massacre. 



JBook five 

TO STOP A DESPOT 





CHAPTER I 


THE JUDGE AND HIS DESIRES 

A grand hall in the Citadel built on the rocky 
eminence overlooking the panoramic city. 

At the farther end of this room, made more 
vast by the height of its ceiling, coloured faintly 
by some forgotten artist with scenes of historic 
Egypt, an imposing entrance guarded on each side 
by a miniature Sphinx of basalt. 

Near each of these figures two fluted pillars of 
polished granite, and a small window of stained 
glass in the frescoed wall. Just in front of the 
windows two splendid golden candelabra blazing 
with light. Around the walls statues in Parian and 
veined Italian marbles. The intricate mosaic floor 
designed from a painting of the Palace of Ptolemy. 

Beyond this entrance and across a corridor a 
flight of seven steps leading to the massive doors, 
strengthened by great bolts and bars of iron, that 
swung open on the crest of the hill. They were 
locked tonight. 

To the left of the entrance to the hall the hid- 
den opening to a secret passage winding away un- 
derground down to a large crack in a huge boulder 
2 5 l 


Near the Throne 


where the declivity is steepest, looking out upon 
the tombs of the Caliphs. 

Directly opposite this hidden opening the 
throne with its many folds of silken canopy em- 
broidered in gold with the star and crescent. 
Near by to the right a gilded table at which 
Osman, raised to the position of Chancellor of the 
realm, was writing as though there were little time 
and much to be done. A few inches from the ink 
jar a bell that tinkled with a silvery sound. The 
length of a musket in front was spread the skin 
of a huge tiger, its claws clutched, its eyes glaring. 
Murad, proud of mien and regal in purple, the 
crown of the Pharaohs on his brow and their 
sceptre in his hand, was seated on the throne. 

As an immediate bodyguard four Nubians, in 
skins of leopards, stood ready with pointed spears. 
And beside each pillar stood a Mameluke. 

It was the King who spoke as his loyal minion 
looked up from his congenial work to listen with 
a servility that was at once fawning and fraternal : 

“This will be a great night, Osman.” 

The astrologer looked acquiescence and an- 
swered in a congratulatory tone : 

“ It will, your Majesty. The trial, the death of 
Balzar, the massacre — after that? ” 

“Nazira!” was the usurper’s reply. “Away 
with crowns and things of state, we’ll give the 
hours to pleasure. ” 

252 


Near the Throne 


“ But for the present, Sire? ” 

“Yes, the prisoners. Send for them. " 

“Fuad,” ordered Osman, “bring in the prison- 
ers.” 

“All except Balzar, ” added Murad, as the 
Mameluke saluted and left the room. 

“ While we wait, 'said the King — “ some music.” 

Osman rang the bell on his table. A slave 
instantly appeared. 

“ Send the dancers and musicians, " commanded 
the Chancellor. 

Making a profound salaam the slave hastened to 
obey. 

“ Everything is ready for the punishment of 
these foreign rats? ” inquired the King. 

“Yes, Sire — everything.” 

“ The signal ? ” 

“The twelfth stroke of the great bell in the 
dome. ' 

“ Allah is good ! ’ 

Then the tripping of sandalled feet was heard 
along the corridor and the musicians and dancing 
girls came in. To the seductive melody of the 
lutes fairylike houris, thinly veiled and draped in 
bright coloured silks with dangling bells on their 
anklets, glided and swayed. 

The King applauded. 

In response they threw aside their veils and 
going through new evolutions danced with the 
253 


Near the Throne 


most graceful and enchanting abandon, never 
unmindful of the truth that suggestion is always 
more tempting than revelation. 

As the dance concluded Fuad returned with the 
prisoners : Nazira, Hassan, Lucine, Antoinette, 
Carmier, Taschereau. 

“ Refreshment for the dancers and bring Balzar,” 
ordered the King. 

Fuad hastened to bring the Captain. 

Hassan and his daughter were standing close to 
the seven steps. 

Murad motioned the girl to draw nearer. 

She obeyed, thinking that conciliation was the 
wisest if not the only course. 

“Nazira,” he said to her so low that neither 
her father nor anyone else could hear, “ in a little 
while I intend asking you some questions. I want 
you to answer yes to everything. If you do, it 
will be well. But the instant you give any other 
answer your father will be shot.” 

“Your Majesty,” she replied, “this is not fair. 
It is some injustice you wish to ” 

“I have no time to discuss the matter,” he 
answered. 

“But, Sire ” 

“Remember,” he said with finality. 

Nazira was helpless and almost hopeless, though 
she recalled the rumour of what Marcel was re- 
ported to have said to the Pasha that evening in 

254 


Near the Throne 


front of the Palace of Saladin — that he had a great 
trust to fulfil ; and sometimes with a shudder the 
young Egyptian imagined what her lover meant 
by the threat. And she knew his pledge was not 
yet redeemed. 

Murad turned from regarding Nazira. For a 
few moments the Saracen seemed to be in deep 
and earnest thought : his forefinger crept to his 
lips and a faraway look came into his eyes. It 
may have been that he was wondering what this 
decisive night was destined to show him of his 
fate, or it may have been that he was thinking of 
the injury he had done to this girl’s sister — and 
perhaps thereby to himself. More than half the 
trouble in the world is caused by a man loving the 
wrong woman or a woman loving the right man at 
the wrong time. 

The slave reappeared with a tray of goblets of 
sherbet which were served as Murad, turning to 
Osman, asked : 

“ Have you the names ? ” 

Handing a scroll the Chancellor answered : 

“ I have prepared a list of the accused.” 

“ Of the guilty,” corrected the usurper. 

“ It was an error of the tongue, Sire.” 

Murad read the document carefully, pausing a 
moment over each name to think of the sentence 
that in each case would best serve his sinister ends. 
And he looked long at the name of Marcel Balzar. 

2 55 


CHAPTER II 


THE LUCK OF THE MERRIEST 

Taschereau and Carmier were standing to- 
gether at the other side of the room, uncon- 
sciously near the panel of the secret passage. 

“These are worse than tight boots,” complained 
the elder Frenchman glancing at the chains that 
held him securely. “ Sapristi ! ” 

“What’s the matter?” said the Gascon, ner- 
vously trying to adjust his monocle. 

“ Do you know a good cure for corns ? ” 

“Yes! D-d-drop this on them,” laughed the 
blond Alphonse lifting the weight fastened to his 
own ankle. 

“I don’t like that young man,” remarked the 
old journalist to himself. 

“ I say, Plutarque — do you know a g-g-good 
cure for th-th-thirst ? ” 

“A sure one,” returned the genial secretary, 
anxious to even accounts and noting his com- 
panion’s inquisitive look. 

“What is it?” 

“ Stop drinking.” 


256 


Near the Throne 


“ Do you think there’s any danger? ” the fear- 
ful Antoinette chimed in. 

“ Danger? ” repeated the revolutionist. 

“ Didn’t you hear her? ” snickered the faultless 
youth. 

“With me here?” asked the philosopher. 

“Well, I should — but ” glancing at the balls 

attached to his feet — “ there’s such a weight on 
my mind — understand ? ” 

“No, I don’t,” admitted Mademoiselle Fleury. 

“I’ll wager five francs,” Taschereau ran on, 
“ I can guess the colour of the top stripe of your 
stocking.” 

“ Done,” she answered promptly. 

“Blue,” he ventured. 

“ Wrong ! ” 

“ Prove it.” 

“There! ’ she returned giving him a sound 
box on the ears. 

Monsieur Carmier had been edging nearer to 
Mademoiselle Chaumont. 

“I thought,” the Provencal said to him inter- 
rogatively, “ you were such a timid sort of a man ? ” 

“ P-p-precisely. N-n-not particularly. Why?” 

“Tinette said you were afraid to kiss a girl.” 

Lucine was so naive that such a frank remark 
from her called up all Carmier’s reserve fund of 
astonishment. He endeavoured to refute this ac- 
cusation, but not quite satisfactorily though they 
17 2 57 


Near the Throne 


were at court. Taking her hand he gently touched 
it with his lips. 

“There’s a place for everything,” Lucine sug- 
gested. 

Alphonse took the hint. Then he asked : 

“Why do you 1-1-look so s-s-sad? ” 

“That may be the last,” she sighed. 

“Oh, n-n-no!” he protested, convincing her 
that he had learned his lesson quickly. Then 
standing back a bit, and contemplating her with a 
grateful expression, he dropped his monocle and 
said : “ Th-that was a c-clever idea ! ” 

At this moment Fuad and another Mameluke 
returned with Captain Balzar. Le Beau Sabreur 
stopped still a moment at the foot of the steps. 
He looked sullen, but determined ; despondency 
never masters such a mind. He glanced at the 
King and at Nazira. Then he came forward and 
stood near the throne — ready. 



CHAPTER III 


A COURT WITH NO APPEAL 

“I heard Monsieur admires the dance,” said 
the King as the prisoner waited for him to speak. 

“ Sometimes, Sire,” replied Marcel. 

“Very well, Monsieur. This shall be one of 
those times,” answered Murad. “ And better than 
the prettiest revel you ever saw — even in Paris at 
the Cafe La Fille d’Or.” Then to the houris he 
added: “Again.” 

The girls took a few steps, but at a signal from 
the throne the fingers on the strings soon quick- 
ened their touch and they formed a whirling rain- 
bow. And their swaying — the captivation of it, 
the rhythm, so beautiful : it was poetry revealing 
its soul in movement and colours. 

Then one of the ghawazzie entered with a cobra, 
which she had charmed, twined around her body. 
Gliding to the centre of the circle she fastened her 
sensual eyes upon Marcel, and to the low chanting 
of the almehs and the carnal music of the lutes, 
danced with a writhing motion that was full of 
suggestion, while the crawling snake wound itself 
about her neck and outstretched wanton arms. 

259 


Near the Throne 


As she drew near Balzar, he turned away and said : 

“The emblem of poison and death.” 

“Monsieur does not seem to enjoy the dance,” 
remarked Murad. 

“ Not when your hired assassins are already ” 

“Not assassins,” interrupted the usurper — 
“ soldiers.” 

“ In such an hour as this,” replied Balzar, 
“ when murder is the game, the soldier’s but the 
bloodhound of the King. ” 

“Then we must lose no time.” 

The astrologer waved to the dancers and musi- 
cians to leave the chamber. 

They obeyed. 

“Osman,” said Murad, “read the names and I 
shall pronounce the sentences.” 

The Chancellor took up a sheet of paper from 
his table and commenced the list : 

“ Hassan.” 

“ Discharged,” said the King, “ I grant him full 
liberty.” 

“ Discharged,” repeated the old man writing 
slowly with his scratchy quill opposite the first 
name. Then he resumed the reading : 

“ Taschereau.” 

“And the next?” 

“ Carmier.” 

“And the rest of the brood,” Murad broke in, 
“what shall we do with them? ” 

260 


Near the Throne 

“Ah ” reflected Osman hesitating, “You 

might ” 

“Banish them — that’s it,” decided the arbitrary 
judge. 

Osman took his pen again, writing opposite the 
second and following names : 

“ Banishment for ” 

“For life,” Murad said in answer to his glance 
of inquiry. “ Except Nazira and Balzar. ” 

“Yes,” said the Chancellor waiting with his 
quill dipped in the ink to hear what he should set 
down for them. 

“ For Nazira ” continued Murad. 

“Nazira,” repeated Osman, the point of his 
pen at the end of her name. 

“ Imprisonment,” was the sentence. 

“ Murad ! ” exclaimed Balzar. 

“You dare not,” said Nazira. 

But they and their protests were ignored. 

“Imprisonment,” wrote Osman. Then looking 
up to his master, he said questioningly : “ Balzar ? ” 

“ Balzar ! ” repeated Murad. “ The adventurer 
from the North disguised under a score of names : 
the gallant, the physician, the soldier, the deaf 
beggar, the holy monk — the spy, the prisoner, my 
enemy who from the shores of the Seine has jour- 
neyed to meet his fate on the banks of the Nile! 
What would be suitable? ” 

“ You said ” 

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Near the Throne 


“ I remember. There’s only one thing for 
him — and he will get it — death. ” 

“ Oh, no ! ” said the Captain with courteous 
confidence. “ Not yet. After you, Sire.” 

“Balzar,” wrote Osman, “death.” 

“To be shot ” Murad went on, pausing to 

think a moment. 

“There will be metal in me then,” laughed 
Marcel to Carmier. 

“At sunrise,” said the King. 

And Osman wrote opposite the name of Captain 
Marcel Balzar : 

“To be shot at sunrise.” 

“No,” added Murad on second thought, 
“change it. That is too far off.” 

“Yes,” agreed Osman, waiting for the decision. 

“At midnight,” resolved the tyrannous King — 
“on the last stroke of the bell in the dome.” 

“Yes, Sire.” 

“ Write that.” 

“Yes, Sire.” 

“ Perhaps, Monsieur,” continued Murad, “would 
like some refreshment before going to his execu- 
tion ? ” 

“Your Majesty is most kind,” said Balzar. 

“ A drink for Le Beau Sabreur,” ordered Murad. 

And Balzar added to Taschereau: 

“There’s one thing about Murad’s wine,” 

“ What’s that ? ” asked Plutarque. 

26 2 


Near the Throne 


With a shrug the physician answered : 

“ You always know what you’re drinking.” 
Having filled the goblet the slave handed it to 
the Captain. 

He raised it to his lips, then hesitated. 

“Are you not thirsty? ” asked the King. 

“Yes, Sire.” 

“ Then drink.” 

Looking right into the eyes of Murad and 
throwing the liquid away, Marcel replied : 

“ No — thank you. I might miss the execution.” 
“ Give me the wine,” said the King. 

The slave poured two more goblets and obeyed. 
Murad drank from the second. 

“Now, Monsieur,” he said. 

Balzar took the third goblet. 

“ You shall propose the toast ! ” said the Saracen. 
Both men lifted the cups, and Captain Balzar 
replied : 

“ To Napoleon ! ” 


CHAPTER IV 


TWO PRACTICAL DREAMERS 

“ Are you prepared ? ” asked Murad indignant 
at this impudent affront, but waiting his time. 

“I am always ready,” replied Balzar with cool 
composure and glancing at Fuad as if to remind 
him of the night when he heard that same answer 
in front of the Palace of Saladin. 

“ One question,” said Murad. “ Do you know 
if Bonaparte has reached Palestine? ” 

“ I do,” was the straightforward reply. 

“Tell me.” 

“ Why should I ? ” 

Murad was never slow in supplying motives. 

“I will change your sentence,” he said. 
“ Come — tell me that.” 

But Balzar replied quietly though firmly : 

“ I am neither the valet nor the spy of your 
Majesty. I am a Captain in the army of Na- 
poleon — who is to be the Emperor of France! ” 

“Your Corsican,” replied the King, “may have 
already found the sands of Syria as fatal as he 
may yet find the snows of Russia.” 

264 


Near the Throne 


Both men had seemingly quite forgotten the 
night the little artilleryman forced the remnant 
that still lives of their cavalry to retreat by Gizeh 
into upper Egypt and the Sahara, leaving to the 
conquerors the rich alluvial provinces irrigated by 
the Nile. 

Osman was waiting, pen in hand. 

The tyrant turned to the Chancellor. 

“Monsieur’s sentence,” he said, “remains as it 
is written. ” 

“ Am I to be shot like a common assassin ? ” 

“ As you are such — yes ! ” 

“ Do you fear me ? ” 

“ Why should I ? ” coolly responded the Egyp- 
tian, repeating the Frenchman’s own words. 

“You do,” insisted Balzar. 

“I?” answered the King with a gesture toward 
his guards. “ Fear you ? Ha, ha, ha ! ” 

“ Then let me die like a soldier. ” 

“ I will let you die like a dog! ” 

“ Call out your best fighters and I will meet 
them all, man by man.” 

“No!” was the unhesitating announcement. 
“ You are to be killed my way. I am going to 
humble you all to the dust.” 

“You have almost humbled us already,” ad- 
mitted Marcel. “ Are you content ? ” 

“Not yet. But I shall be soon. In half an 
hour you will be among the great ones,” the 
265 


Near the Throne 


usurper said sarcastically, “who have gone be- 
fore. And Nazira shall be here with me to enjoy. ”_ 

“ Never ! ” 

“ Because ? ” 

“ It is my will,” said Balzar with a smile. 

“ This is absurd.” 

“Absurd or not,” the surgeon responded toss- 
ing back his head and with every muscle tense : 
“It is my will! You shall not touch her. I for- 
bid you ! ” 

“You,” exclaimed Murad rising with indigna- 
tion, “a prisoner — forbid the King? ” 

“ It’s not the crown that makes the King. It’s 
the heart.” 

“What I wish, I do,” said the Arabian resum- 
ing his seat and unmindful of the truth that has 
found verification in many a royal palace that he 
who climbs high falls heavily. 

“ Have you no humanity? ” 

“ Nothing but equity.” 

“ You use the wrong name, Sire.” 

“ I should say? ” 

“ Lust ! ” 

“ You waste our time. Three minutes now and 
our soldiers begin to blot the name of France from 
Egypt. Fuad, remove the prisoners.” 

The Mameluke proceeded at once to do so. 

“A moment,” interposed Balzar appealing to 
Murad. 


266 


Near the Throne 

The King granted his request, and waved Fuad 
aside. 

“You will not do this thing,” continued the 
Captain, “ massacre all those innocent people ? ” 

“ Men, women, and children. ” 

And Osman added : 

“That was the order to our soldiers.” 

“And they always obey,” said Murad casting 
an approving smile at the line of Mamelukes. 
“ They will cut the French up like gourds ! ” 

As if in confirmation of this statement there 
sounded from the distance the shrieks of the help- 
less and the yells of the heartless. The Arabians 
could not wait for the signal. 

“Think again,” said Balzar placing close to- 
gether his hands with the fingers and thumbs 
clutched and glancing at the astrologer’s throat, 
“near the throne are many flatterers.” 

“ May Allah change you into a dog ! ” burst out 
the angered Moslem, casting aside his dignity as 
Chancellor. 

“ And may he ” 

“This man should be silenced,” the Bey ex- 
claimed again, appealing to Murad. 

“Surely,” Marcel began to plead. 

“ I have said it,” replied the King. 

“ Murad ” the Captain continued trying 

again to make an appeal. 

“ That is my decree. ” 

267 


Near the Throne 

“ Murad ! ” burst out Balzar, advancing menac- 
ingly. 

Instantly the spears of the four guards were 
pointed in defense of the King and the muskets 
of the Mamelukes were levelled. 

“ Calm yourself, Monsieur,” said Murad lolling 
back in conscious security. “ Let me tell you of 
a dream I had — it may help you to be more re- 
signed. ” 

“ I am a prisoner, Sire. I am listening. I too 
had a dream.” 

“ Sleeping last night in the Palace of Saladin,” 
Murad went on, “ while you were in the subter- 
ranean dungeon, I dreamed I saw a black coffin. 
On it, dressed in the ragged uniform of a Captain 
of the Twentieth Chasseurs, was a man shot 
through the head. Above it perched a black hawk 
called — Defeat. And on the coffin was written : 
Marcel Balzar. The dream widened. Defeat was 
swooping down and alighting upon the forces of 
Bonaparte. I saw your navy afire at Alexandria, 
its ships destroyed by the British ; your army im- 
prisoned in my country, starved, poisoned, dying by 
thousands. The streets of our cities were strewn 
with the tricolour, the sands of the desert were 
spotted with the bones of your soldiers, bleaching 
in our tropic sun. I saw the eagles of France 
crushed by the hoofs of the Mamelukes with their 
plumed turbans galloping to victory, the cross 
268 


Near the Throne 


thrown down, the crescent uplifted — every Euro- 
pean in the land, under the curse of Allah, mas- 
sacred, and floating over all the conquering flag of 
Egypt and her King.” 

“ With such a prospect/’ reasoned Balzar, 
“ surely you can afford to show mercy. ” 

“ I said no mercy,” answered the relentless 
Saracen. “ But I pity you and the poor wretches 
with you. ” 

“ Pity them ? ” ♦ 

“ Yes.” 

“ While you are waiting for the signal from the 
dome ? ” 

“ Certainly. Why not ? ” 

“ When your hands are eager for the shedding 
of their blood ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“You pity them? As a cat pities the mouse 
bleeding beneath its paws. As a serpent pities 
the bird trembling beneath its fangs. As a vul- 
ture pities the squirrel struggling beneath its 
talons. As a tiger pities the babe torn beneath 
its claws. As a demon pities a mortal thrown to 
hell ! Oh ! how you do pity them ! ” 

“You grow warm, Monsieur. Again I say: 
calm yourself.” 

“And your Majesty believes his dream? ” 

“ Why not? ” 

Balzar, like many an astute parliamentarian on 
269 


Near the Throne 


the side of the minority, knew his only hope lay 
in gaining time by delay and in this way postpon- 
ing action on the part of his adversary. 

“Think, Sire/’ he proceeded, “to what heights 
and depths dreams have led. Those unreal 
beckoners have inspired men to greatness and 
lured them on to ruin. Nero dreamed beside the 
Tiber, and Rome burned. Cleopatra dreamed be- 
side the Nile, and Egypt flourished. Dreamers! 
A soldier dreams : he hears foaming horses rush 
to the charge and sees a score of glittering medals 
on his breast. A lawyer dreams : he hears a uni- 
verse squabbling and sees a cyclone of briefs. A 
showman dreams : he hears the rattle of a hundred 
chariot races and sees a wilderness of tinselled 
monkeys. A musician dreams : he sees his hair 
grow three feet long and hears an orchestra of 
virtuosi play his opera. A farmer dreams : he 
hears the sweet grunting of his greasy pigs and 
sees a thousand leagues of ripening cornfields. A 
lover dreams : he sees two melting eyes smile into 
his and hears a soft voice whisper. Dreamers ! 
Mahomet dreamed : he thought he built up a new 
shrine for mankind to bow before. Voltaire 
dreamed : he thought he tore down an old altar for 
the world to scoff at. Dreamers ! ” 

“ Go on, Monsieur, you amuse us,” interposed 
Murad. 

“Julius Caesar dreamed,” said Balzar obeying 
270 


Near the Throne 


willingly : “ he heard the tramp of legions, saw 
the glisten of their spears — and he made his way 
to empire. But our own Louis dreamed : he saw 
oppression crowned, heard the knell of freedom 
ring — and he made his way to the guillotine.” 

“ Enough, Monsieur,” said the King. 

“ May I tell your Majesty of my own dream? ” 
asked Marcel, still anxious to gain time by any 
means. 

‘‘Go on,” said Murad. “It may entertain us 
while we wait for the hour. ” 

“ True — while you wait for the hour. ” 

“ Go on with the dream, Monsieur. ” 

“ When you were sleeping last night in the 
Palace, your head resting on a pillow of down and 
silk, and while I was lying in your prison, my head 
on a stone, I could not sleep for the drip, drip, 
drip of the water. So mine was a waking dream. 
I heard the deadly crack of our muskets and the 
cannon of Napoleon booming at your frontier. I 
heard the songs of our battalions marching past the 
pyramids, and saw their plumes waving up your 
crimson streets. I saw the colours of France flying 
on your walls, her eagles glittering on your Citadel. 
I saw a blood red glare — it was the flames licking 
upward on your gilded palaces. I heard a ponder- 
ous crash — it was the tumbling of your minarets 
and domes. Then my dream narrowed. I saw a 
throne — this throne; at one side was a broken 
271 


Near the Throne 


sceptre, at the other a shattered crown. Before 
the throne a dead king was lying head downward 
on the stained steps, for the curse of God was on 
him and his star had set forever. Above, with 
his heel tramped to the heart of that bleeding 
body and holding on high a sword of vengeance, 
was standing a soldier of France. And the name 
of that king was — ” 

“ Let the jest end ! ” shouted Murad. 



CHAPTER V 


SABRE AGAINST SCIMITAR 

Suddenly the usurper’s attention was arrested 
by a noise from across the room — it sounded like 
the moving of an iron grating. The Bey and 
others noticed it too. 

“The entrance to the secret passage, Osman. 
Is it shut? ” inquired Murad. 

“Shall I send Fuad?” 

“ See to it yourself. ” 

The Chancellor went quickly to the hidden 
panel. 

There was so much mystery and plotting and 
murder in this Palace, Nazira’s hand involuntarily 
clutched her bosom, as she stepped back to make 
way for the astrologer. 

Osman pressed the spring, the panel opened 
slowly, and he disappeared in the darkness of the 
passage. 

Nazira’s fingers felt something of a different 
texture from her dress — sought it — a note — glanced 
furtively at the writing. It was from her sister. 

Her father was watching her. 

1 8 273 


Near the Throne 


One brief look sufficed to scan its contents. 

“ It was Murad ! ” she exclaimed beneath her 
breath. 

As she put the paper back in the bosom of her 
gown an awful yell came echoing from the wind- 
ing secret passage, and Osman stumbled into the 
room scarcely able to stand. 

“ Worda ! ” he declared, half fainting and 
clinging to a short blade which he had evidently 
wrested from his assailant. “ She has stabbed 
me — with ” 

“ My poniard ! ” said Balzar completing the 
sentence. 

The astrologer sank to the floor trying hard to 
crawl nearer the steps. 

The Mamelukes and Nubians stood motionless 
but prepared. 

“ She has killed me ! ” gasped the old fox. And 
he fell dead at the foot of the throne. 

“Justice!” said Balzar pointing to the body 
with two fingers. 

The King came down to the thing that had 
served him so faithfully, placed its cloak over the 
face, and two of the Mamelukes bore it away. 

While this was going on Nazira gave the note 
to her father, saying : 

“From Worda.” 

Looking at it, Hassan said to himself : 

“Marcel innocent.” Then he read again the 
274 


Near the Throne 


message to his daughter. “ It was Murad who 
betrayed me.” 

From a distant part of the city came sounds of 
Egyptian music. Murad knew it was his bands 
arousing to the work of assassination and carnage. 

“Come, Nazira, come,” he said advancing 
toward the girl. 

“ No ! ” she said shrinking back from him. 

“Tonight — tonight!” urged Murad. 

“Father,” she pleaded, “you will not let him 
take me from you.” 

“No, my child.” 

Hassan took his daughter’s hands in his. Her 
eyes moistened and there fell upon his trembling 
wrist a burning tear of gratitude. 

As if in mockery the great bell in the dome of 
the Citadel rang out — stroke one. 

“The hour has come,” said the King rejoicing 
as he listened a moment to the shrill sound of the 
distant shots and shouts : 

“Allah! Mamelukes! Murad!” 

“ It is the signal,” said the tyrant. 

Balzar was listening too. 

Then to Fuad, Murad added : 

“ Conduct her to the chamber of the King.” 

“ Let them dare ! ” broke in Balzar springing 
forward. “ Bear witness, all. Before heaven, I 
swear that I will kill this viper! ” 

The guards stood ready to thrust the prisoner. 

275 


Near the Throne 


“Put up your bayonets,” said Murad to them, 
“ Le Beau Sabreur forgets.” 

“I remember much, your Majesty.” 

“ But you forget one thing.” 

Again the bell in the dome rang out — stroke 
two. 

“ And that is ? ” asked the Captain. 

“An Egyptian prerogative,” was the answer of 
the monarch, rising to his feet and unsheathing a 
gleaming piece of steel — “ the poisoned scimitar 
of the King. ” 

“ No, I remember — all. And to let you live is 

treason against mankind. ” 

Murad merely laughed. 

The great bell again clanged — stroke three. 

“I would kill you now — near the throne,” con- 
tinued Balzar, “ if I only had a sword ! ” 

“Take mine!” shouted Worda jumping in 
through the secret passage. 

It was the work of a second. Balzar grasped 
the sabre and was already pushing up his sleeve, 
having thrown off his coat. 

Murad made a gesture to his guards not to fire. 
But they stood with muskets loaded. No sooner 
did Hassan hear Worda’s voice than, forgetful of 
all his bitterness, he held out his arms, exclaiming : 

“ My daughter ! ” 

“ My father ! ” she cried rushing to him. 

Again the bell rolled out its sound — stroke four. 

276 


Near the Throne 


As Worda showed Hassan a picture, he sobbed : 

“ Your mother. ” 

“ If you will die,” said Murad coming down the 
steps of the throne. 

“You forget my famous thrust,” answered 
Balzar. 

“We have met at swords before,” replied 
Murad frowning and glancing at his hand. 

Marcel added : 

“ And I think you bear a mark of my esteem.” 

Again that dreadful bell — stroke five. 

“If you are not a coward,” said the Egyptian, 
“ come on ! ” 

This was the moment Captain Balzar had been 
waiting for. It was an unequal contest; his only 
weapon being a sabre, but it was his own from 
Aboukir — his adversary having a heavy scimitar 
poisoned, and a pistol in his belt, and being sur- 
rounded by his bodyguards and Mamelukes. 

“ On guard ! ” Marcel shouted coveting this 
chance even if the odds were a hundred to one 
against him and determined that if he could make 
it so the duel would be to the death. 

They crossed swords, the sovereign and the 
prisoner, the Saracen and Le Beau Sabreur — and 
the fight began. For a few seconds the game was 
to Balzar, his thrusts and cuts were so swift and 
tellingly aimed. The Egyptian parried them skil- 
fully, with the ring of the steel clipping fire — yet 
277 


Near the Throne 


he retreated. He had fought, though only in 
practice, in that same room before — and knew the 
tricks. He was retreating as a ruse toward the 
two pillars. Then by a sudden turn he had his 
foe down on his knees in the narrow space. 



“ Marcel ! ” cried Madame Balzar seeing her 
son’s imminent danger. 

With studied intent Murad made a furious slash 
at Balzar’ s head. There was a lightning upward 
movement of the Chasseur’s blade. Recover- 
ing, he parried the blow, but the heavy scimitar 
descended with such force its very weight broke 
a sharp piece of steel from the hilt of Marcel’s 
sabre, which cutting across the flesh of his 
278 


arm 


Near the Throne 


severed a small artery. The blood spurted out, 
but the physician saw at once it was an ugly 
though harmless wound, and without relaxing his 
guard an instant ripped off his cravat and tied it 
above the gash. 

'‘Have you had enough, Monsieur?” shouted 
the King. 

“ Not yet, Sire!” replied the Captain making 
a feint. 

Murad advanced and fell into the trap. In a 
moment more the Arabian attempted the desired 
lunge — then stood disarmed and chagrined with 
his opponent’s foot upon his scimitar. 

And the bell in the dome rang out — stroke six. 

The soldier of France stooped down, picked up 
the poisoned blade, and handing his own weapon 
to the King, shouted : 

“ Now then, again ! ” 

“ Marcel, stop ! ” begged his mother who was 
standing close to the steps of the throne, 

“I will kill him,” was the reply she received. 
“That’s a French prerogative.” 

“No, Monsieur,” retorted Murad, “for you die 
first ! ” 

“ Come on ! ” 

“On guard ! ” 

“ You must not kill him ! ” cried Madame Balzar. 

“ Why? ” 

“ Because — he is — your brother ! ” 

279 


CHAPTER VI 


THE QUESTION OF A KING 

“ The proof ! ” demanded Murad. 

“The signet ring!” asserted the woman hold- 
ing forth her hand. 

“ What more? ” 

“ The scar ! ” she added baring her arm. 

And the great bell clanged again — stroke seven. 

At this revelation Murad and Balzar were as- 
tonished beyond expression. Both stared at the 
evidence as if they were witnessing a miracle. 
Murad took her hand that he might subject the 
tokens to a more searching scrutiny. 

To Marcel her word would have been sufficient; 
to the Arabian these vouchers of her identity 
amounted to an absolute establishment : they were 
conclusive and irrefutable. 

“ Disarm the prisoner,” commanded Murad. 

Fuad and two of his subordinates did as they 
were bidden and assisted him on with his coat. 

To Madame Balzar Murad continued: 

“ I pardon you.” 

“ And Marcel ? ” she asked beseechingly. 

280 


Near the Throne 


“Dies, ” he answered pointing to the paper on 
Osman’s table. 

“ Murad ! ” she cried in supplication. 

“ It is written,” he replied. 

Again the bell rolled out its dreadful sound — 
stroke eight. 

Noticing Worda the King remarked to Fuad: 

“ Without chains. She had better stand alone.” 

The Mameluke placed her in the corner indi- 
cated, which was beyond the two pillars and near 
the entrance to the secret passage. The rest of 
the prisoners were at the same side of the room, 
but in front and to the left of this mysterious 
panel. 

To Worda Murad said : 

“ The slightest movement and you will be shot.” 

The bell reverberated again — stroke nine. 

The shots heard in the southeastern quarter of 
the city increased, as if there were resistance to 
the massacre — or a conflict, and a new sound was 
borne in on the winds from the opposite direction. 
It was very faint at first like distant grapeshot 
and cannister. 

“ Listen ! ” said Murad imposing silence. 
“What is that? ” 

“ The roll of the drum, ” replied Captain Balzar. 
“ Napoleon — bringing your message ! ” 

The bell seemed to ring louder — stroke ten. 

“Napoleon? ” repeated the usurper. 

281 


Near the Throne 


“You are no more a King!” shouted Marcel, 
as the sound of the drums drawing nearer assured 
him of the meaning of the fierce rattle of musketry. 

“ Napoleon ! ” said Tinette clapping her hands 
and speaking to the group around her. “ I know 
him, I do — we were boys together ! ” 

“You are wrong,” returned Murad, after listen- 
ing a moment to distinguish the sounds. “ It is 
the massacre — of the French! ” 

The bell above clanged louder still — -stroke 
eleven. 

“He is coming,” shouted Balzar, “the Lion of 
the Desert ! Soon he will speak to you from the 
mouth of a cannon ! ” 

As Marcel listened to the booming of the little 
Corsican’s guns he almost fancied he recognized 
the voices of his own three shining fellows cast 
from the bells of the Augustine Convent at Avig- 
non which had so often pealed their silvery sweet 
ness over the hills to the ears of peasants and 
popes. But his ears desired nothing more sweet 
or silvery now than their welcome thunder. 

A bugle call echoed through the night. 

Noting it was from the trumpeter of the 
Twentieth Chasseurs the Captain continued : 

“ Murad, the next time we meet will be,” paus- 
ing and pointing upward, “ near the throne ! ” 

Again the great bell in the dome of the Citadel 
rang out to all the city — stroke twelve. 

282 


Near the Throne 


“ Twelve ! Huh ! ” laughed Marcel to Tasche- 
reau and Carmier. “ And I’m not dead yet ! ” 

“ Hassan,” said the King, “there is a reason 
why your daughter Nazira should become my wife. 
Her own words will 
be proof. Perhaps 
Balzar would like to 
listen too.” 

The Captain 
turned expectantly. 

He noticed that 
three Mamelukes 
were standing just 
a little out of the 
line and immedi- 
ately in front of 
the massive doors, 
though he did not 
observe particu- 
larly that the space between them and Worda 
was clear. 

Looking at Nazira and pointing to Worda Murad 
resumed with a frowning inclination of the head : 

“ Instead of your father — you understand ? ” 
The girl shuddered, for she understood only too 
well. 

“ Nazira,” he went on, “were you not once very 
favourably inclined toward me? ” 

“ Yes.” 



283 


Near the Throne 


“ Much more than that? You promised to go 
to a garden with me ? ” 

“ Yes. ” 

“ To love me ? ” 

To what was this accursed serpent leading her? 
But fearing for her sister, she answered : 

“ Yes.” 

“To give yourself wholly to me? ” 

“ No ! ” 

“Is it so? ” 

She glanced at Worda and the three Mame- 
lukes and was unnerved and said : 

“ Yes.” 

“ With all your passion? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And you did it ? ” 

“ I refuse to ” 

“Remember,” threatened the King, for from 
his point of view virtue was only successful temer- 
ity. “ You yielded ? ” 

“ I re ” 

“ Did you not ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Soon you will become a mother ? ” 

The girl was so frenzied at this abominable 
falsehood that for a moment she weakened and 
there issued from her parted lips a sound so near 
to silence it was like the faint sigh of the last 
wave upon the shore of the farthest sea. And she 
284 


Near the Throne 

scarcely knew that to his iniquitous question she 
replied again : 

“ Yes.” 

“ Am I not the father of your child ? ” 

“ How can you dare ? ” 

Is it true? ” 

“ And yet God does not strike you dead? ” 

“ Answer ! ” he said pointing to her sister and 
the three Mamelukes in his endeavour to force her 
affirmative to his infamous demand. 

“ Yes,” she said. 

To all this Marcel was obliged to listen. Glanc- 
ing toward Worda and seeing Nazira’s agonized 
looks in the same direction he walked behind the 
prisoners as if anxious to hide himself from sight, 
he was so stricken with grief. 

Filled with shame and despair Nazira screamed 
out : 

“ No— no ! ” 

So engrossed were all present in the base 
Egyptian and his vile requests that no one noticed 
yet the faint and distant martial strains of the 
Marseillaise. No one, except Balzar — nothing 
escaped him. But he was determined that nine 
people in the room should escape that nameless 
demon — that viper. 

Murad’s black eyes were fastened upon Nazira 
and his swarthy arm was outstretched toward 
Worda. 


285 


Near the Throne 


Hastily giving Hassan the incriminating epistle 
that Osman had stolen from him, Marcel said : 

“This letter belongs to you.” 

“Monsieur!” said the merchant in confused 
gratitude. 

Then glancing at the panel in the wall Balzar 
added to Carmier : 

“ If he should miss me ! ” 

“ Give me your coat and hat,” said the young 
beau, whom the emergency made brave. 

They exchanged. This was the work of two 
seconds. 

“Keep your back to Murad,” said Balzar in 
caution. “ This is too small, but I’ll get rid of it 
outside.” 

Carmier obeyed and kept the other prisoners 
close together, so that Marcel might be unseen. 

Stooping low Balzar crept stealthily to the 
panel, opened it slowly and slipped into the secret 
passage. 

“ Answer me ! ” commanded the King again. 

Nazira remained obdurate. 

To the three Mamelukes Murad said: 

“ Ready ! ” 

They obeyed the order. 

“ It’s a lie ! ” vowed Nazira. 

“ I will give you one chance more. ” 

“ I don’t want it. ” 

“Remember,” Murad persisted, pointing again 
2 86 


Near the Throne 


to Worda. “ Be careful. Am I not the father 
of ” 

“ No ! ” she shrieked. 

“ Present.” 

The muskets clicked. 

And a ringing voice — the voice of Marcel Balzar 
outside the gates shouted : 

“ Fire ! ” 

This word was followed instantly by an ex- 
plosion of terrific violence. The massive gates 
were blown to pieces and their huge iron bars 
twisted as though they were straws. The wall 
was in ruins. The pillars were wrecked, and in 
their crash hurled down and extinguished the 
candelabra. There was an immense rent in the 
ceiling and the roof through which the moonlight 
shone. The floor of the corridor was torn as if 
by an earthquake, and from its depths the place 
was lighted by the red glare of flames. And the 
throne was shattered. Murad, head downward, 
was lying dead on the crimsoned steps; strewn 
near him were the lifeless bodies of his fated 
Mamelukes. 

There, where the gates had been, but where 
flags and ' standards were flying now and bands 
playing at the head of the army of France, in the 
very flush of youth and victory — stood Napoleon. 

Straight in the gleam of the moonlight shining 
full upon his white shirt, his foot upon the heart 
287 



His foot upon the heart of the fallen King, his hand uplifting the 
avenging sabre of Aboukir— stood Balzar. 


.. 


Near the Throne 


of the fallen King, his hand uplifting the aveng- 
ing sabre of Aboukir — stood Balzar. 

“ The trust ! ” he shouted, holding up three 
fingers. “ With my bullet ! Triumph ! ” 



“ Dead ! ” exclaimed Nazira looking at Murad, 
as Marcel hastened to her and took her in his arms. 

With a piercing shriek of anguish Worda ran 
and knelt at the dead Egyptian’s side; the girl’s 
soul had risen now and conquered in spite of 
all this man’s cruelty and treachery — and with a 
great broken sob she fell upon his neck, crying : 

“ Murad — Murad ! He was my king ! ” 

19 289 


Near the Throne 


Then as the soldiers of the future Emperor 
sang and the bands poured forth the martial 
strains of the Marseillaise, Captain Balzar shouted 
above the echoing music : 

“ Near the throne ! ” 




DEC e ! 899 




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